


City of Fallen Angels : (1) Sundown

by Elysiummm



Series: California By Night [1]
Category: Original Work, Vampire: The Masquerade, Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines (Video Game), World of Darkness (Games)
Genre: Blood Drinking, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Neglect, Embrace, Everybody Lives, Everyone is a monster, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Friends to Enemies, Gen, Ghouls, Hopeful Ending, Hunters, Interrogation, Intrigue, Malkavian Madness Network, Manipulation, Murder, Mutual Pining, No Heroes, POV Multiple, Possibly Unrequited Love, Pre-Canon, Rape Attempt, blood bonds, canon expanding lore, character corruption arc, debt to be paid, drunk vampires watching Underworld, grudging friends, sometimes living is worse, vampires don't have friends, vampires keep secrets, vengeance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:27:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 133,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25037722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elysiummm/pseuds/Elysiummm
Summary: Los Angeles, 2003. The Father of the Revolution, Jeremy MacNeil has abandoned the Anarch Movement three years ago and left his legacy in the hands of Salvador Garcia. The Barony of Angels in Central LA is a patchwork of roving vampire gangs, brutal Anarchs, and outcasts. No one to give orders. No one to restrain the Beast. Survival of the fittest. The Anarch way.Charlie Bradley is Embraced into this chaos. The Malkavian fledgling digs her heels into what remains of her human life — her little sister, who fell into her care when their mother died last year, and her last best friend. Every night, the human life slips further and further out of reach.Matthew Monroe has accepted it as his last option. As autarkis and a former Ventrue, he takes no voice in politics, rarely attends social events, and keeps largely to himself. His heirloom ghoul, Miss Audrey Hawthorne, is the last remnant of the sect and clan he misses dearly.MacNeil granted him dominion over Silver Lake three years ago, when he arrived. But, as Garcia tends to remind him, MacNeil isn’t here anymore. When hunters begin to dog their footsteps, Monroe knows they are on their own.Los Angeles is a powder keg and the sun is going down.
Series: California By Night [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1813321
Comments: 66
Kudos: 27





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Changelog:  
> Sept.6/20: edited the majority of the story to pull back the time to Oct 2003, rather than Oct 2020. Monroe’s age from 175 to 158 (Embraced in 1873, age 28); Hawthorne’s age is still about 250 (ghouled in 1774, age 24); Zari Embraced in 1983, age 28; Jack Embraced 1950, age 25; been with Ryuko for 50 years. // Charlie lost her mother a year ago, father out of the picture (bc she is my self-insert and I can do what I want). // Jack's Protean flight form changed from falcon to crow for aesthetics // New prologue // Deleted the thinblood Leo, replacing him with canon thinblood Copper // Changed Monroe's intro scene

When had the Anarchs changed? Something had happened. Salvador Garcia ran a gentle hand down the bar of the Taste. It gave off an aura, mournful and full of secrets that tingled in his fingers. If only it could talk.

The Taste of LA had been Jeremy MacNeil’s domain, the heart of LA even when it was still Camarilla. A politico kindred-only cafe hosted in an abandoned alley off Hollywood, lush with gleaming wood and intelligent rousing discussion. The Revolutionary Council had been hosted here. Camarilla-oppressed Anarchs as they plotted their rebellion in hushed tones. After their victory, it became a monument and site of holidays. 

Now silent.

Throughout the nineties, the Taste had faltered as more and more licks left. A new generation who had forgotten, who had never tasted oppression. The last person in it had been MacNeil. 

Salvador knew Anarchs in other cities were brutish, crass, full of violence and not in pursuit of individual freedom for the principle so much as the desire to do what they wanted without fear of consequence. LA was different. Used to be different. 

The cafe was haunted by ghosts. Cobwebs glittered in the dim light, in the corners, strung across untouched stacks of glasses. Sheets covered pool tables and chairs balanced on their tables. He brushed the grit off a handful of darts and crossed to their table. Their corner. MacNeil had always been so much better at this than Salvador.

Maybe he was right.

Salvador threw and the dart skittered off the metal with a cloud of dust.

Three years wasn’t much time at all, though. Three years was nothing to the immortal. And yet, every night of those three years hung heavy. In every dark corner, MacNeil’s violent green eyes haunted him, judged him. He had sat right there, in a chair like any other but every Anarch knew it was _his_ chair and, for that, it became a throne.

Salvador would never forget the look in his eyes, the hunch of his proud shoulders as he twirled his glass. MacNeil had called Salvador to the Taste. Salvador, of course, had El Hermandad and East LA to take care of. He hadn’t been back home to Angels in years. Decades. He had been stunned to see MacNeil alone in the disused cafe.

“You’re late, Sal,” he said. His voice was rough like sandpaper, harshened further by an old Scottish accent he had never shook.

Salvador extended his arms and gave his best attempt at a swagger. “Aren’t I always?”

MacNeil sniffed a wan smile. “You are.” He took a drink from the glass. “I’m not going to make any city-wide speech. They don’t deserve it, but you do. I’m leaving, boy.”

Salvador shook his head, unable to process the words. Some part of him knew it was coming, had been coming for years. Decades. He just hadn’t wanted to believe it could come.

“Why?” he whispered.

“I made a mistake helping you,” he said gravely. “Maybe you’ll see it one night. Don’t rightly care if you do or don’t, but I have to leave. All those green bats proved was that we aren’t what we used to be.”

“The barons—”

But the word was a mistake. MacNeil laughed harshly. Salvador sighed and sat, laying a tight hand on the Scottish legend’s arm. Somehow, his wild hair looked more untamed, as though it bore the brunt of his bitterness, his dark jeans and jacket more stained.

“The barons are no better than princes of any Tower kingdom,” said MacNeil out of the corner of his mouth, as though he feared Isaac Abrams coming down from Tinseltown to bitch. Abrams had come up with the term and MacNeil had never forgiven him for it. 

“We are,” he insisted. “We—”

“We put down a rebellion. Against _our_ rule,” said MacNeil gently. “We united our martial forces, called the troops of our domains, and crushed them. The green licks never stood a chance. It was a _purge_ , Sal.”

Salvador scoured a hand through his hair. He had thought it went very well, in fact. Those wretched Ironlords had plotted his death for ages and, like any rightful gang war, Salvador had called his friends and allies and destroyed them. The Ironlords were stupid. They knew he had friends like MacNeil, Abrams, Nines, and then _they_ had gangs of their own. It was a pointless war and they all made a point of them. Had even been fun. They all hadn’t seen each other in too long. The reunion had been to die for. MacNeil was making it out to be something shameful.

“We didn’t mean it like that,” Salvador whispered.

“I did it for love, son,” said MacNeil. “Doesn’t stop the fact that I did it. We aren’t what we used to be. I’m telling you this because it’s time for us to go.”

“Us?” Salvador looked at him differently and understood suddenly why MacNeil had asked him to the Taste. The feeling left him cold.

“Us,” he repeated. “I’ve talked to the others. Abrams will never leave movieland. Nines won’t leave his human home. The Voermans can’t agree on anything. Doesn’t stop that it’s time the Anarchs of Los Angeles were allowed to make their own fortunes. Like we did, in ’44.”

Salvador shook his head, but he didn’t say no. “We’re not stopping them. Besides, Abrams was right, to a point. You remember what LA was like in the fifties. Chaos. It—”

“Was the chaos they made,” he said sternly. His eyes flashed and Salvador swallowed his objections. “If that is how they want to live, that is how they deserve to live. Gang wars and squabbles and egotistical murder. I thought we could be better, that somehow, because we weren’t Ventrue or Toreador that maybe we were different. Like we weren’t all Beasts, deep down. I was wrong. Alone, individually, we can be good, maybe, but together there is no hope for us.”

Salvador could only stare. MacNeil was a legendary Ranter who had rallied a whole city against the Camarilla. He had led them in battle against the Sabbat twice, routed a Camarilla proxy, and never faltered. Not once. He cut down a dozen Sabbat from astride a motorcycle, wielding a massive two-handed claymore. 

Somehow, he had been defeated.

“You’re wrong,” said Salvador desperately.

MacNeil finished his drink and looked at him in that intimate way. “You’re not saying that because you believe it.”

“I’m saying it because I must,” he insisted. “Jeremy, we _have_ to be better. Otherwise, this was all…”

MacNeil smiled. “A mistake.”

“No.”

“It was.”

“I can’t believe that.”

“You will,” he said, and it tasted like both threat and promise. “You will. One night, you will believe it. I ask you, please, have the strength to walk away.”

“This isn’t strength.” The cold disbelief turned to anger. “This is cowardice. Giving up. You’re abandoning—”

“What?” asked MacNeil kindly. “My city? I was a rabble rouser, a troublemaker, a liberator. Nothing more. I’m not a prince in a Tower. I’m not a leader of peace—”

“But people follow you,” he begged. “Think of them, at least. Even if you never chose it, you have to answer their call, save them from themselves.”

“I have to do nothing but hide from the sun and drink blood.” MacNeil nodded to himself, hanging his great shaggy lion’s mane, and for a moment Salvador thought he had him convinced. That if he wouldn’t stay for his gang, his friends, he could stay for his followers. Then, he stood. And the moment passed. “You’ll see it. If you insist on staying. I can’t and won’t stop you. I’m giving you the Barony of Angels.”

“What?”

“Let this be your problem, Sal,” he said coarsely. “You will understand, one night, and I can only hope not too late. Come out of your cave in East LA, where things come so easy, and feel what these followers truly are.”

Salvador could only gawp. “Easy?” he demanded. “You know the Sabbat are hiding out in San Bernardino, that they strike at every opportunity—”

“Exactly,” said MacNeil calmly. “You are unified against a common enemy. That is not who your people are in peace, who they truly are. It’s not who _you_ are. We Anarchs are best when we are at war against the Camarilla, either ideological or martial. In peace, the Camarilla accept their traitorous, scheming natures and the damage they do. We can never face our mirrors. We are chaos. We bring war to our own people.”

“The Ironlords were necessary,” he said weakly. He remembered the look on MacNeil’s face after the battle rush had faded, that grief gone in a flash, and knew it had only been left to fester into this.

“To me, yes. They would’ve killed you and I couldn’t let that happen. Maybe they should’ve been given a chance, though. What would they have done as new rulers of East LA?” MacNeil shrugged. “You staying?”

“I—” Salvador swallowed and stood. For a moment, MacNeil’s breath caught and he saw hope. “I have to stay.”

Disappointed, MacNeil extended a hand. “This will probably be the last time you see me, Sal. I want you to know that I have always been proud of you.”

MacNeil had never said so much. His gruff voice was meant for shouted Rants, for commands on a battlefield, to rouse the soul and enspirit crowds. In the abandoned cafe, it burned in Salvador’s soul.

“It’s been an honour to know you, Father,” he said, less than half a joke. Father of the Free State, and so much more.

MacNeil absorbed that softly and left swiftly. The door swung hard behind him, stealing him away from LA and Salvador’s life.

He threw another dart. It clanged off and hit the floor with the others. Grappling for them, Salvador touched MacNeil’s throne. It gave off the same dark aura as the rest of the Taste, but tainted by a longing. Not for the first time, he wondered where MacNeil had gone. Back to Scotland? It sounded like he wanted to live in a Cam city, as an Anarch with something to fight against. Salvador should’ve argued that now they had something to fight _for_ , but, like all his other _should’ves_ it was three years too late.

The transfer, as easy as he had made it sound, did not go well but not as badly as Salvador had feared. MacNeil was the Father, but Salvador Garcia the Holy Spirit. He made it work. 

Three years. Every year wore harder than the last. This was not East LA, a domain of honest working class streets so like Salvador’s mortal home in Spain that, if he shut his eyes, he could imagine different. This was Central LA. This was Angels. It was Hollywood, Beverly Hills. Land stretching from LAX to Downtown, more barony than any other and more diversity than he could wrap his head around. It was porn stars and washed up actors and new money and cheap fame. It was grit and glitter and burned out dreams. Salvador longed for the honest fight in East LA, the bulwark against the dread Sabbat. He had to admit, though, that he hadn’t organized any outright destruction simply because, as he often had been, Jeremy MacNeil was correct. It was easy to unite against an enemy.

The door opened behind him. He didn’t even look. He could feel his blood in the air. Lorenza Garcia, his second childe, and not nearly as successful as his first.

“What’s up, Papa?” she called. “Having fun among the dust and — Christ, what’s that smell?”

“Don’t call me that,” he said for the thousandth time, but she didn’t listen. “Does Jesus have a message for me?”

Lorenza snorted. “That Ventrue would rather count coins than fight.”

It was only a stereotype and one Jesus Rameriz did not resemble in the slightest. In Salvador’s absence, Jesus looked after East LA. He would leave it to no other. Long before he had Embraced his childer, there had been Jesus.

“Jesus is an honest, loyal, and hardworking Anarch,” he said, leaving the rest of his statement unfinished, but she heard it anyway.

“Unlike me?”

“Unlike you. What do you want, childe? Money for pretty toys? Me to rock you to sleep at dawn?”

“I’ll have you know that the Tempests have managed to tear off four blocks from the Blood Brothers in North Hollywood,” she snarled.

Salvador snorted and threw another dart. It stuck, barely. “Blood Brothers. Is that what you do with your nights? Fight and kill our people for four blocks of turf?”

Maybe the Anarchs hadn’t changed. Maybe this was what they had been all along and freedom — what they fought so hard for — had torn off the sheet and revealed the ugly browbeaten corpse below. Even so, someone had torn it off. Maybe the Tzmisce turncloak up in the hills, or one of the old high clans preparing LA for a hostile takeover by the Tower, or the Setite hiding in a Denny’s. 

Everywhere was chaos, dangerous, but nowhere like the Valley. Lately, they tended to call it a wasteland, full of gangs that bite first, ask questions later. Lorenza living in such a wasteland felt like a bad omen. In her, he saw the future of the Movement. It did not make a pretty picture.

“Four blocks that are _ours_ ,” she insisted. “ _Our_ domain, _our_ home—”

“You have a home,” he said. “Anywhere in East LA, in Angels. It’s just stupid to risk your life for four blocks, careless to kill for what you do not need.”

He turned to face her and, once again, was struck by the resemblance. The jut of her chin, hawkish handsome features, the flash in her dark eyes, the sleek long hair which she insisted on wearing in ponytails. He had Embraced her four decades ago for her resemblance to his late teenaged sister. Isla never would’ve worn such baggy sweatpants or bomber jackets, though.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she cursed.

“I don’t care what you do. Go to East LA, play bloodsports at Greystone, stand there and pout like a child if it makes you feel better. I—”

The door opened again and Salvador breathed a sigh of relief. Jesus Rameriz, a stocky and chubby Dominican boy, stepped in with a look of apology. 

“Hey, hermano,” said Jesus. “There’s… not a problem, but…”

“A problem,” said Salvador, understanding.

“Si.” Jesus shuffled awkwardly between Lorenza’s glare. “She came looking for you and — I’m sorry, Sal.”

“It’s alright. No harm done.” Salvador wrapped an arm around his shoulders and left with Jesus, not giving Lorenza or the Taste another passing look. Something had happened, as something always tended to, and his people needed him, as they always did.

Salvador slid into the passenger seat of Jesus’ dusty red pick-up truck. It looked like it had been through hell, dents and scrapes revealing the ugly steel underneath, but it could still out muscle most vehicles. Especially the way Jesus drove.

Jesus Rameriz had been an accidental Embrace, to hear him say it, a random kid picked up from East LA by a Ventrue of Don Sebastian’s court who found himself needing a translator and a new bitch. Like most Revolts, the LA Revolt had hinged on disaffected high clan fledglings and neonates turning to the Anarchs. Jesus had been one of the first and proved himself so much more than his blood. Salvador had trusted him with his life several times and knew him to be an awkward, stoic boy without a dishonest drop in his blood.

“What happened?” asked Salvator.

Out of the heavy air of the Taste, Jesus smiled uneasily to himself. “A rose came to the arboretum in East LA few hours ago, looking for you.”

Toreadors. Even Abrams was only just tolerable. Salvador grimaced.

“What for? Who was it?”

“I’ll let him explain it to you.” Jesus’ eyes slid sideways. “Sorry, Sal, but it’s Swan.”

Salvador groaned and rested his head on a fist. The streets flew by, too fast. “Whatever he wants, just let him have it.”

“That might be difficult.” Jesus shifted in his seat and Salvador decided to trust him again.

The comfortable silence grew as Jesus returned them to East LA. Not the arboretum, though, that base Salvador had secured for his Gangrel brothers of El Hermando to run wild. Instead, Jesus directed them to the San Gabriel Mission. At once, Salvador understood and cursed.

One night, he knew someone would destroy the Society’s chapter in LA. It was only a matter of time. Perhaps the Vatican would fill it with hunters again, but LA would only prosper by the lifting of the hunters’ base from their neck. He hoped one of his own would take on the monumental task, but made it clear that a failed attempt would do more harm than good.

San Gabriel’s Mission was one of the oldest still standing in the city, a Spanish colonial building with orange tiles along the roof and shining white stone that absorbed the streetlights. The mission, equal parts school, church, and museum, spread over a city block like a festering wound. Its age and Catholic faith seeped into the ground. It made Salvador’s fangs lower, his hackles rise. The Beast grappled in his chest, fearing God’s judgment, but he stuffed it down. Swan had wanted to meet him here.

“Which building is the bastard in?” asked Salvador.

Jesus led him wordlessly into the old chapel by the graveyard. Here, the paranoid feeling of God faded and he relaxed. He relaxed, too, because Jesus had summoned another half dozen of his men and they waited to enter the chapel with him. It could’ve held no more fifty people. Even low, the ceilings were supported by weathered beams. The windows bore no stained glass and electric scones lit the humble chapel. 

Inside, there had been a massacre. Bodies tangled in the alley, limbs and heads rendered from the torso and left astray. Blood stained the walls and floors. And the irreverent pest himself, Ashley Swan, draped himself over the lectern. He appeared to be alone. The man, if he could be called such, was slender and dressed as though he came from West Hollywood. Bare-chested under a velvet brazer, silver-gold hair touched the collar, a mirrored glint shone from both fang and sunglasses.

“Good to know Toreador still have a flair for the needlessly dramatic,” said Salvador dryly.

“Oh, shut up,” he said with a grin. He swept a hand over the gathering. “I am very fearsome, after all. You apparently need seven whole Brujah to face little old me.”

Salvador let the insult brush him by, though not without difficulty. “So, how did you do it? Who paid you?”

Swan let his sunglasses dangle from a hand and stepped over the corpses. “Those are two different questions,” he said softly. “You get one.”

It all felt wrong and Salvador trusted those feelings.

“What did you do?” he asked. “I count three bodies. There are eleven hunters here.”

Swan whistled low. “Spicy. Who said Brujah had no imagination? Three whole questions.” He smirked. “There are thirteen more hunters, in fact. I have the intelligence and, whatever you may think of me, I have the ability. Many find my abilities indispensable.”

Thirteen. Ten, now. Salvador didn’t know about that. “You have a price, then.”

Swan stepped closer. “You have had a bounty on the Society of St Leopold for decades. I’m here to collect, but I want them to live. Ten highly trained ghouls is my prize. If you want a taste once I blood them, I accept cash or credit.”

Salvador’s lip twitched. Ten. Goddamn. Even ghouls, that would be a small army. Not enough to take out any kindred, but too many by far.

“And, of course, the major boon you hang on the bounty,” added Swan, as though things couldn’t get worse. 

“Never,” he swore. 

Swan sighed dramatically. “Look, I wasn’t going to say it, but we all know your hold on Angels is tenuous at best. I will assist and make it worth your time—”

“There is nothing you could give me to make dealing with you worth my time,” said Salvador with a cold smile. “Besides, all the roses have between their ears is hot air.”

A couple of the Brujah chuckled.

“And glitter,” said Swan coolly, nodding. “Hot air and glitter. I still can provide valuable insight into Hollywood and Angels proper. You know my rivalry with Abrams. Since he left to Burbank, I learned his domain, in and out. And, as this meeting proves, I _can_ and _will_ take out the Society. It wasn’t easy—”

One of the Brujah cooed. “Oh, did the sissy break a nail?”

The look Swan gave Felton could’ve killed a mortal. A threatening flush rose up his chest and neck, a sign of encroaching frenzy. One more provocation and he could snap, and Salvador could be rid of him. Instead, with a great obvious force of will, Swan regained control.

“Don’t play high and mighty, like you did this for your ‘fellow Anarchs’. You do it because you see LA as another ladder to climb, like any other Camarilla city, cape,” said Salvador. 

Swan’s smile rotted on his painted lips. He stepped uncomfortably close. “One night, you’re going to want my help and I’m going to step back and let you fall on that sword you keep on sharpening,” he whispered. 

How dare he threaten him?

Swan dodged the first punch, but it was still over quickly. Their Celerity might be matched, but he couldn’t be in seven places at once. The bloodsport tingled electricity through El Hermandad, a savage excitement Salvador hadn’t felt in too long. Brujah hit hard, too. A Potence that he couldn’t be expected to match. Swan had decided to make it unfair, by coming alone to begin with. That had been his decision. And now it came to collect.

Kindred were durable. They could take a lot of abuse before sliding into torpor, but Salvador stopped them before then.

Salvador pinned Swan to the blood-slick floor with a boot to his chest. Swan rasped a chuckle and spat out a cracked tooth.

“You got a strange way of asking for help, my baronship,” he said.

“Clean up the chapel,” ordered Salvador. “You painted it red. Get rid of the bodies. We don’t need a Masquerade breach on top of this mess.”

Salvador gave the Toreador one last kick in the head. It smacked into the pew and made Swan grunt.

El Hermandad slapped each other on the back, congratulating each other on the brawl, and Salvador felt the stirring of a conscious. It was only MacNeil, those sharp green eyes in the darkness, the warning that maybe they weren’t what they used to be. But that was bullshit. High clans always had it coming. They had a debt to pay to those they used to spit on, those who served them and feared them, who made the Anarchs and Free State to escape them.

Even Abrams, in his own way, had it coming one night.

Toreadors were a plague on the city. Tremere knew better than to come in fifty miles of California. Ventrue, though. Jesus was solid. Fortier, for his aesthetic clinging to the old ways, was just as steadfast. 

Monroe, though… Monroe could be the enemy Angels could unite against. 


	2. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Note: Rape attempt. Charlie lures would-be rapists to attack her, but comes out uninjured.

Charlie pulled at the hem of her miniskirt again as her cheap high heels clicked down the dusky and empty side street. The light pollution bled across the sky. Dumpsters lined the backs of clubs and restaurants. Music echoed through muffled doors. Rain was usually a cause for excitement in California. Not tonight. It soaked her hair and clothes to her skin, tracing cold fingers down her spine and face. On Sunset, shrieks of laughter echoed as people navigated the downfall. 

Charlie swallowed and continued walking. She felt like a fake. She hadn’t even been on a date before. She had always been too scared to come out as a lesbian. Now, it was too late. The miniskirt was black and short enough to show her panties if she wasn’t careful. The top was low cut, the bra underneath a size too small. Her wildly curly dark hair, instead of being restrained in a ponytail, was let free down her back. She wore a mess of drugstore makeup, too much eyeliner and red lipstick, but it was the best she could do. Her foundation didn’t match. It was from Before. Before Griffith Park. Her tiny shoulderbag had pepper spray, as a last resort.

She was starving. Every step _hurt_. Her bones felt like they could snap in a strong wind. Charlie was an athlete — had been, at least. Her body carried her through the hills, across Europe, and let her surf against the powerful current. Now, she felt so weak she could scarcely stand. What if there was no one out? The news was always full of crime around Hollywood and the Sunset Strip. Drugs, assaults, muggings, rape. Murder every now and then. So, where were they? Crime didn’t just happen by itself.

In the haze of the hunger, Charlie had no idea what she would do if no one showed up tonight. She couldn’t go to work, or even go home. As she thought it through, she realised suddenly that she was planning to assault a stranger in the middle of the night. In a dark alley. Again. A shiver ran down her spine.

Desperate times.

She turned a corner and froze.

Charlie had seen him everywhere. At first, she thought they had just made awkward eye contact, as strangers sometimes do. Then, his lips would move, but she was never close enough to make it out. Inevitably, she would look away or something would come between them and he vanished. He couldn’t be seen in a crowd. People wouldn’t acknowledge him. He simply had never been there.

The first time, it was weird. The second time, she kept checking over her shoulder. This made five times. Five times in two weeks.

Charlie summoned her courage and forced herself to approach him. They were alone in the alley.

“Hey, you, what’s your problem?” she demanded.

He didn’t react to her words. On cue, he extended a hand. Like a ghost, replaying the same minute expressions and movements. He looked like a badly Photoshopped crop-out. His face was cast in light and shadow, but it didn’t correspond to the lights of the alley. Always the same.

“What’s wrong with you?” she said. “Following me?”

She had never been this close to him before. He was close enough to touch. He was a young man, thirty at most, and dressed like he worked in a nice office. Dark jeans, button down, smart blazer. The thin smile didn’t reach his eyes. A long serious-looking face was almost gaunt. He looked like a mannequin, not quite human.

He was also dry. The rain seemed to ignore him, pass right through him. His dark hair was neat, combed, and dry as a bone.

He opened his mouth and his lips moved soundlessly. Now, she was close enough to read his lips.

_Charlotte, do you know what you are?_

The words cut to her core, terrified her. He knew. This ghost knew what had happened. He had answers and just mocked her.

No one called her Charlotte. Only her mother. Him daring to use that name made her angry.

“No,” she shouted. “No, I don’t know, I would love for someone to enlighten me, because, clearly, the universe has decided to fuck me over and—”

“Who you talking to, babygirl?”

Charlie turned from the ghost. At once, she regretted it. Turning back, he was gone again, but now she had a bigger problem.

A couple of white guys hung around by the dumpster. Black jeans, grimy t-shirts, but hundred dollar haircuts. Rich kids playing at rebellion. They laughed and Charlie couldn’t help but think they were laughing at her. By their movements, they were drunk.

“Yo, babygirl, you lost?” asked the other one.

She kept walking. Her heels didn’t let her walk fast and she had to concentrate to not turn an ankle.

The guys jeered, and followed at a leisurely pace.

Charlie’s face burned as she heard their comments. Her skirt had ridden up again. She reached to pull it down at the back.

A strong hand grabbed her wrist. “Whatcha think about doing that for?” The voice was greasy, hot in her ear.

Charlie struggled to contain herself. If it hadn’t been her, it would be another girl. Some girl who wouldn’t be able to fight them off. An anger she didn’t know she had curdled in her chest.

 _Kill them. Evil, bastards. Human predators. Streets would be safer. They_ touched _you. Who knows what they planned on doing? Use you? Violate you? Beat you? Kill you?_

The thoughts weren’t hers. The voice they spoke with didn’t belong to her. But it was so hard to ignore. It had a point.

Two more hands pulled her roughly off the back street. “Nothing to say, girl?”

They pushed her. She stumbled against the dumpster. The heady wet scent of garbage filled her nose. Laughter.

_Kill them. Rip them open. They would do the same._

The two men stood over her. One of them grinned, the other looked her up and down before meeting her eyes with a primal hunger. The first one grabbed her skirt and pushed it up higher, his hand gliding against her skin.

 _Kill them. Kill them. Kill them_.

Charlie struck. She threw the one who touched her against the dumpster. He collapsed, dazed but not unconscious. The body felt like it weighed next to nothing. His friend stared, shocked for a moment, before Charlie grabbed him with the same alien strength and pushed him against the wall and bit him.

It wasn’t a love bite, a mix of lips and playful giggles. It wasn’t even in anger, using teeth as a desperate weapon of defense. It was like biting into an apple. Charlie’s lips pulled back and she latched her mouth onto the pulse at the man’s neck. She bit. It should’ve left a nasty bruise, maybe draw a little blood at worst. The artery opened freely and blood poured down her throat.

It should’ve hurt the man. He moaned and wrapped his arms around her waist.

It should’ve been repulsive. Every swallow chipped away at her weakness. The pleasure pulsed through her and she ached with its sweetness. It tasted like blood but the flavour exploded on her tongue with a thousand nuances.

The voice in the back of her mind purred.

The impulse to keep drinking almost overwhelmed her. Somehow, she managed to drop the man. The high vanished. The hunger lingered. He collapsed next to his friend.

The other one held a bloody spot on the back of his head where he had hit the dumpster. She could smell the blood. Unfocused eyes looked up. Charlie licked her lips and reached out a hand to his neck. The pulse beat under her fingers. Before he could say a word, she bit him. The high returned to her as she drank, lingering in vast emptiness. All she could focus on was the blood.

Charlie tore herself away before she listened to the voice. He fell back to the ground, murmuring to himself. 

She picked up her purse again and took off as fast as her heels let her. Fleeing the crime scene. The weakness gone, she kept her balance and broke out into a run. She felt alive, better than she had in days. But, with the taste of the cooling blood still on her lips, she was terrified.

Terrified, more than anything, that she _wasn’t_ terrified.

She didn’t pant. Her heart didn’t race. She didn’t shiver or cry. Her stomach didn’t rebel at what she had just consumed.

She knew she was afraid. Even if they were monsters, she had just badly hurt those two men. And she would do it again. _Why?_ Why was she so weak? She had done it five times in the last few weeks. Aside from her racing mind, she had no evidence she was even afraid.

Charlie returned to her red Toyota and slammed the doors. She started it and turned on the lights. There was only twenty minutes until her shift started. She rubbed off her makeup and blood, changing from the skanky clothes into something comfortable and shapeless. As she pinned her hair back into place, she caught herself looking at the reflection in the rearview mirror. Her brown eyes were hollow, empty. It had been over a year since they had seen life, but there was something almost haunted in her expression.

“Hey, listen, ghost,” she whispered, “if you’re there right now, I’d really appreciate some help.”

She waited as long as she dared. Minutes slipped by in hopeful silence that petered away into resignation. Charlie forced a smile and drove to Wal-Mart.

  
  


Monroe loved humans. For a few shining hours, he could forget what waited for him outside and the press of his years. In the back of his club, locked in a humid recording studio that reeked of weed and stale beer, he felt normal like he hadn’t in well over a century. Often, his crisp and tailored presence precluded natural interaction between humans. It took plenty of alcohol and other intoxicants, but was always worth it in the end. Monroe leaned back, stone sober, and watched with a fond eye.

Marvin, the vocalist of the Bad Bats, leapt to his unsteady feet. “Why don’t we go do a live album?” he slurred. “Much easier than this garbage.”

Harry raised his glass and whooped, but it only made the drummer scowl.

Marvin dragged the last of his joint, flicking away the crumbling embers. Smoke poured from his mouth. “Don’t be a pussy,” he taunted. “One set. Record. Bam!”

The drummer waved the smoke away. “We would still need to do the work. Besides, you two’re way too fucked up to go on stage.”

“Am not!”

“You’re just being a little bitch,” said Harry.

The drummer snarled. “This is just like you, jackass! All you’ve done since we got together was dump all the work on me and—”

“Boys, boys,” said Monroe gently. “I think we’ve done enough work for tonight. Hawthorne and I will wrap up loose ends. Why don’t you go sleep on it? We can always ship a second disc for a live show.”

Marvin beamed and jerked a hard finger. “This — This ain’t no place for our raw energy. You’ll see it, man.”

The drummer stood and shoved Marvin to the door. He grabbed Harry’s jacket. “Great idea, Monroe,” he shouted over Harry’s objections. “I’ll get—”

“Don’t touch me, shitface—”

The three shoved and muscled through the narrow door, exploding out in a tangled pile of limbs and expletives. The drummer smacked Marvin a few more times before dragging his bandmates back out into the club and, hopefully, into a taxi cab.

Hawthorne finished her joint and gathered the empty bottles together in the bin. “If I may offer my opinion,” she began loftily, kicking the door shut.

Monroe gestured. “Always.”

She threw herself into the couch the Bad Bats had just vacated. The old ghoul stuck out, as she tended to wherever she was. Theoretically, she was a part-time college student at UCLA, but there was something off. She was too still, too formal, even with alcohol and drugs in her. She didn’t blink enough. Her solemn features never smiled. But, it was her natural state and seeing as she had over eighty years on Monroe, who himself had over a century on either Zari or Jack, Monroe tended not to correct her.

She wore all black, as per her custom and that of many college students, but favoured pressed slacks and blouses in styles from decades long past. Her dark hair swept from her face in curled waves above her shoulders. 

“You only like those chuckleheads because of their name,” she said pointedly.

“The label’s a passion project,” he argued. “It’s not like we need the money.” He indicated her latest beer. He hadn’t kept track of her drinks. “Do you need something to edge off the hunger?”

Hawthorne lowered the drink, licking her lips. Ghouls faced the same hunger kindred did, unable to ever slake the thirst totally, and winter ghouls thirsted more than any other. Well past her own first century, her thirst had only grown the last sixty years Monroe had known her. While her dedication to her work was unshakable, he noted she oft took to recreational drugs when she hungered rather than ask. Of course, habits among their kinds were hard to break. Ghouls were seen and not heard.

“I’m not gonna reject,” she said with a smirk. “But I’m not desperate. I could go a few more weeks.”

“If you want something, learn to ask. I won’t deny you,” he said, too seriously, and the air thickened too far.

The door opened again, saving him, and Dawson stuck his head in. The forty-something ex-marine wore nondescript black clothes, but they were dusty and a chunky belt with a walkie-talkie and gun hung heavy on his hips. The look he gave Monroe was typical of summer ghouls: utter worship.

“What?” asked Monroe curtly.

Dawson sighed, blinking to recover. “Sir, you have a visitor. Business partner, his men said, like Mr Swan.”

There was no one like Ashley Swan, though Monroe could think himself lucky his unwelcome guest hadn’t thought to tell Dawson that Monroe and they were vampires.

“Does he have a name?”

“Salvador Garcia.”

Hawthorne groaned, sinking her face into her hands.

Monroe had to chuckle dryly, because the alternative was to kill the messenger. “Very well. Show him in here—”

Dawson’s face twisted. “I’m so sorry, sir. I’m sorry, I know we’re not supposed to let anyone upstairs, but—”

“Garcia showed himself up,” he finished. Monroe stood, rebuttoning his shirt, and took his jacket off the chair. “I’ll meet him. Keep yourself out of trouble, Dawson.”

A sign of affection to the ghoul, Monroe placed a hand on Dawson’s shoulder. Despite being a half foot taller and perhaps fifty pounds of raw muscle heavier, Dawson’s lip trembled and he drank in Monroe’s face for moments more before leaving.

“Mr Monroe,” started Hawthorne weakly.

“We didn’t expect it,” he said comfortingly. “Stay out of sight. He doesn’t need to see my strung-out ghoul tonight.”

“I can operate. I can—”

“Stay here,” he insisted.

She hadn’t looked at him like Dawson had, not ever. The fleeting summer romance of young ghouls lasted a few decades, no longer, and she had served Monroe’s sire and grandsire before passing to him. Well over two centuries of stilted obedience hung in her eyes. None were immune to the strength of the Blood.

On any other night, Monroe loved nothing more than spending his hours at his music club, Blue Moon. He had arrived as an angel investor to the struggling business three years ago, and the old owner still handled the day-to-day work. The only times they saw each other was when Frank Chase wanted to give Monroe shit for what he was doing. A little blood and Dominate took care of things. Yes, of course, build a private basement. Yes, we should have offices upstairs. I understand, yes, we all need to launder money at times.

With the threat of Garcia, he barely saw it as he stepped into the elevator. Nothing good could come of this. To antagonize Monroe so, it also smacked of a greater insult. Monroe would obey his overlord, answer any summons to meet Garcia at his own preferred haunts. But Garcia had come here. Monroe did not inspire fear or respect, not to him.

Upstairs, Monroe kept his personal office and a number of temporary havens fitted with beds and amenities. The elevator opened to a room in the same fashion as the downstairs club: the outer wall of exposed brick, white paint highlighting the dozen framed gold records, a seating area of mahogany and leather, and a modern glass-top desk. 

Behind the desk, Salvador Garcia sat, dirty sneakers crossed on top of the desk as he paged through the documents.

Garcia, like most everyone else, had been Embraced as a young man of twenty-something. His sire must’ve in part chosen him for his appearance. Sharp hawkish features and eyes that knew what you would do before you did. Loose flannel and jeans did little to conceal his strength.

As Garcia glanced up and caught Monroe’s eye, the temperature seemed to drop twenty degrees.

“Make yourself at home,” said Monroe.

“I intend to.” Garcia threw the folder down and folded his fingers across his chest. “I told MacNeil he shouldn’t have given you Silver Lake. Should’ve fed you to the wolves when you crawled on hands and knees to us, begging.”

“MacNeil’s not here anymore,” Monroe reminded him. “And I, too, remember that night. I don’t beg. I asked, politely, and MacNeil—”

“Took you to the back room for privacy, allowed you to stay, and fled the Free State months later,” spat Garcia, a single stream of rage that cracked through the facade.

Monroe would neither defend nor incriminate himself. He had known and still knew little of how the Anarch old guard operated. Any number of things could’ve driven MacNeil away from Los Angeles. Somehow, Monroe doubted it had been him.

Garcia regained control, cracking his neck. “MacNeil gave you Sunset Junction. You’ve expanded to the rest of Silver Lake.”

There was no accusation in it. Garcia did not know how tenuous Monroe’s grip on the neighbourhood truly was. 

Monroe shrugged. “Unwritten law of vampire code: if you can hold it, you can have it.”

“Then, this is your problem. Anarchs, even here in MacNeil’s Barony of Angels, observe no law and order but what we make for ourselves. No elder tells us where to eat, who to sire, or where to sleep at dawn. But we observe the Masquerade.”

Monroe narrowed his eyes, wondering if Garcia meant to imply Monroe’s own mask as a music producer. Of late, Monroe had been the feature of some unfortunate tabloids. “I do, as well.”

“Do you?” he drawled, sneering. “Then, you clean up this poacher. One death, six victims. All around your domain. How about that?”

“I’ll take care of it, sir,” promised Monroe.

Garcia laughed, a chilling sound. He crossed the room and smiled but it didn’t touch his eyes. “I’m not your ‘sir’,” he said gently, in that way he would talk to any of his men, any of the Anarch-sired wretches who filled the Free State. It promised Monroe peace, friendship, belonging, if only he had been sired by a Brujah or anyone else but a Ventrue, if only he had not come as a fleeing Camarilla criminal and instead been sired into the Free State of California. “I’m just the steward of MacNeil’s Barony of Angels,” said Garcia.

“Sounds good, sir.”

Garcia lost his smile and looked for a moment like he would like nothing more than to hit Monroe. Instead, he brushed past him and crossed into the elevator.

Poacher. For all Monroe knew, it was a wild goose chase, something Garcia cooked up to occupy him. Four nights later, he was seriously considering marching up to Greystone and accusing Garcia of exactly that. Silver Lake had no other residents and few Anarchs spoke openly with him. 

The Rolls-Royce SUV slid through the night. Monroe rarely drove himself, preferring Hawthorne to take the wheel, but it was a beautiful ride and cost him a few pennies. The illegally dark tinted windows blocked the sound and light from outside. The two back benches faced each other, separated from the front by a sliding black glass that would make the backseat entirely light-tight. 

They were quiet as the grave. Not even Jack spoke. He looked odd when he didn’t smile, older somehow. He wrung his hands in his lap, his shoulders collapsing in. Zari sprawled across a bench to herself, texting nonstop with long fingernails. 

Monroe had thought they would argue. The silence surprised him. Not much did. Aside from cursory greetings, neither had spoken. It would be another bleak and fruitless night. Perhaps they might find another bloodless murder victim and spend the next several days liasoning with the press and police department. Thankfully, mortal gangs created more than enough bloodshed as a cover. Still, they were three steps behind.

Almost time to call for a favour, God help them.

In a Camarilla domain, poachers were dragged before the prince, subject to anything from a firm lecture to Final Death. But California wasn’t a Camarilla domain. Monroe knew that better than most.

His phone buzzed. He spared the road another glance before checking the text message. He pulled off into a side road and made for UCLA, fast.

“What’s put you in such a good mood?” asked Zari without taking her eyes from her own phone.

“Hawthorne’s at the Medical Center,” explained Monroe. “Two were a coincidence, but now there’s four students with symptoms. Weakness, fatigue, anemia, fainting spells, and a low red blood cell count.”

Jack returned to his smile and stretched out in the backseat. His tall muscled frame seemed to unfold like an accordion. “Finally, a good lead. Do you think the poacher’s on campus?”

“Doubt it,” said Monroe. “The Professor knows everything that happens on his college.”

“Their haven’s probably around UCLA,” said Zari airily. “Perfect place to set up shop — _not_. The Professor would have their head. Now, we have to take it.”

“We aren’t killing them,” said Jack. He tore his dark eyes off the window. “Come on, they might not know. It’s not like every V in America gets your newsletter.”

Zari hissed. Monroe didn’t bother turning around. It was a good-natured hiss.

“For the last time, it’s not a newsletter, it’s a _zine_.”

Jack rolled his eyes with such gusto Monroe could hear it. “Whatever, not even all the Anarchs get _the Estate_ , let alone a newcomer.”

“Fifth _Estate_ ,” she corrected. “And it’s not like you contribute anything to LA, freeloader.”

Jack picked a spot of imaginary dust off his leather jacket. “Am I getting a performance review?”

“About high time you had one.”

“I appeal to the union captain,” said Jack loudly. “Hey, yo, Captain Monroe.”

Monroe sighed. “Yes?”

“Don’t play along with him,” scolded Zari.

Heedless, Jack ploughed on. “How’s my performance review looking?”

“Satisfactory,” he said after a thought.

The word provided each of them what they needed. Zari thought it a snide insult; Jack, a compliment.

The pointed sandstone towers of UCLA breached the trees and broke into the cold, dark night sky. He navigated through the campus roads slowly. This late at night and late in the year, very few people lingered on the quads anymore. Castle-like buildings hung at the edge of the flat lawns, like some stately English manor. Students retreated back to their cars and apartments after late night sessions in the library, but the campus was deserted. The Ronald Reagan Medical Center was a brutalist modern collection of cubes deep on campus. The parking lot was similarly empty and Monroe parked next to the car Hawthorne had taken, another black SUV, not as smooth and not as nice.

Hawthorne texted Monroe directions. The soulless white lobby didn’t bother the coterie any. He led them up the old elevator, to the fifth floor, where Hawthorne waited.

He smelled her before she spotted them. Through the chemical sterile of the hospital, a delicate scent of his own ghouling and almond and cherry. 

She stood as she saw them. Hawthorne gestured to the hospital room she stood outside. “Two more men, but I’m afraid they’re uncooperative—”

Zari needed no further persuasion. She stalked into the room, all bouncing black coils and glittery smiles. Despite Hawthorne’s own skill with the powers of his blood, she didn’t have much of a bedside manner.

Jack exchanged a look with Monroe. “I better make sure they don’t need another doctor.”

“We are in the place for it,” said Monroe mildly, but Jack went in anyways as Zari questioned the men. They appeared barely conscious, slightly starstruck by Zari’s appearance. She was dark as the night and just as beautiful. Her delicate figure drowned in an overlarge sweater, but little could be done about her elegant broad features or wide eyes.

“Good catch, Miss Hawthorne,” said Monroe. “If you hadn’t made the connection, we might not’ve found the poacher before Garcia killed me.”

“It was the Professor who contacted me,” said Hawthorne.

Monroe had to give Professor Nelson credit. The Malkavian was one of the few who walked the Anarch walk and paid ghouls any respect. To most, they were tools. 

“How are your studies?” he asked.

Hawthorne smiled. The expression was stiff. It didn’t come naturally to her, but the action transformed her face. She looked two centuries younger. “Great. I finished my last midterm on Friday — Intro to Computer Sciences.”

“Wonderful, now you can teach me.”

“I would be happy to,” she offered.

Monroe had meant to be ironic, but it wasn’t as though he had more important things to do. She looked so eager, too. “As soon as we catch the poacher,” he promised.

She raised her fist as though to punch him, but it hovered by his shoulder. Bewildered, he stared at it. She raised a perfect dark brow, expectant, and it took him a moment.

“Right.” Wearily, Monroe executed the fist bump and fluttered his fingers away.

Jack and Zari left the dreary hospital room. The coterie and Hawthorne piled into the elevator and stepped back out into the night.

“What did they have to say?” asked Monroe.

Jack scratched the back of his head. His fingers tangled in long coarse hair. “Not much that made sense.”

“They picked up a girl after hitting a bar on Sunset,” said Zari. “She gave them drugs. What kind, they couldn’t say, but they took some and stumbled their way in here. After that, they don’t remember much.”

“Like Dominate muddling their memories?” asked Monroe. “Ventrue or Malkavian covering their tracks?”

“More like they got hit on the head by a pretty girl V and lost a lot of blood,” said Jack. “Could be anyone.”

“Which bar on Sunset?” asked Monroe.

“Verdant.”

Monroe knew the strip well. It wasn’t any bar or club that had any kindred influence. As far as he and the baron were concerned, it meant nothing. Which meant it was free game.

“To Verdant, then,” he said.

Jack all but vaulted over the Rolls-Royce to Hawthorne. He must’ve appeared in the blink of an eye, tall, dark, and dashing, dressed in the Brujah uniform that made him look like he stepped off a Ramones album cover.

“Can I drive? Please?”

Hawthorne checked with Monroe, who only shrugged, before handing over the keys with a wan smile and sitting in the passenger seat.

“Remember,” warned Monroe, and Jack turned back, “she’s a ghoul, not kindred. Don’t wreck the car and don’t wreck my retainer.”

“Aye, aye, captain.”

The SUV took off at a reckless speed and Monroe thought, not for the first time, that he should buy the boy a motorbike. Anarchs liked motorbikes.

Zari slid into his passenger seat and plugged the Verdant into the car’s GPS.

“Do you really think she’s new in town?” asked Zari. She crossed her five-hundred-dollar sneakers on the dash. “The poacher?”

“New or stupid,” he said. He reconsidered. “Not stupid, more like willfully ignorant. Some chunks of LA might be barren, but almost all the city has claimants. You don’t just walk into someone’s house and raid the pantry.”

“So, we’re going to kill her?” prompted Zari.

Something had happened. Zari was a sweet woman. Intelligent. Calm. Monroe knew her well enough over the last two decades. When disaster struck or life fell out of control, she had a tendency to want to take it out on someone. Monroe blamed it on her foster sire.

“I’ll talk to her,” said Monroe, pretending he didn’t feel her contesting his position. “I will lay down my rules and, if the baron lets her stay, we’ll see if she’s a good egg.”

Zari snorted. “Good egg. We’re talking monsters.”

“We are what we are,” said Monroe. “But we can still be better. If she proves to be trouble, I’ll let you kill her — but don’t tell Jack.”

Satisfied, Zari smiled to herself and left a dusty shoeprint on the pristine dash, as though she thought it irritated him. Monroe flinched for her, let her have her petty rebellion.

LA’s infamous traffic had abated by one in the morning. Even along Sunset, the traffic was more pedestrian than automobile. The music industry, rather than local groups and rock clubs, dominated the strip and, as they did, entry fees went up. Rather than the rough underbelly, the clubbers were upper classes playing at rebellion in too much steel and black leather and tourists searching in vain for authenticity. Even so, it made for good hunting. Before the legendary Jeremy MacNeil had skipped town, he designated the entire strip a neutral zone. Garcia held onto the custom, just as he clung to every remnant of MacNeil’s authority.

Monroe pulled into a nearby parking lot and Jack parked next to him. The car — and, far more importantly, Hawthorne — seemed unhurt. 

Verdant didn’t appear as popular as some of Sunset’s other offerings. A few blocks down, the Viper Room and Pandemonium continued to pump out music as late-night guests funneled in. Verdant was out of place among the trendy boutiques and restaurants. The vintage bar was a relic of a time before the glaring billboards that brought daylight to Sunset.

Verdant was as unspectacular inside as outside. It was a social bar, for playing pool, drinking beer, and sharing time with friends. A friend group lingered in the back corner and the bar supported a few lonely alcoholics, but the music felt lonesome in the quiet.

The bartender did a double take at them. “Can I get you guys something?”

“Some friends of mine were mugged last night after leaving your bar,” said Zari with an apologetic smile. She leaned across the bar towards him. “You have any cameras set up? I’m sure the police will want a look.”

At the mention of the police, the bartender turned away and persistently cleaned a spotless piece of the bar. Even by kindred standards, the LAPD were corrupt, openly so, and even Monroe struggled to keep up with the changing landscape of bribery. 

“I’m sorry about your friends, man, but I don’t think my boss—”

“Honey,” she began again, but Monroe wasn’t in the mood for a show.

“ _Take me to the camera room_ ,” he said irritably. His own mind reached out with the words and scraped across the will of the bartender. Weak, overworked, tired, it felt like clay in his grasp. He gave it a squeeze.

The bartender dropped the rag and stepped from behind the bar, crossing the floor of cramped tables to a nondescript door. The coterie followed into a cluttered office, where there was in fact a computer monitor. Puzzled, the bartender turned back to look at them.

Monroe gripped the bartender by the chin and felt his jolt of surprise. He met his eyes calmly. “ _Forget_ , and go back to work, please.” He directed the man out of the office and shut the door behind him.

Hawthorne sat behind the computer and wiggled the mouse. A blue desktop blinked back, filled edge to edge with program icons. Jack moved to step behind her as she navigated the system.

“My, someone’s pissy tonight,” said Zari, crossing her arms. “Are we not allowed to have any fun?”

“There are ten clubs down Sunset if you want a new plaything,” he said. The vulgar use of Dominate made his fangs tingle with thirst. “How’s it going, Miss Hawthorne?”

Her fingers didn’t clack across the keyboard like in the movies. It just involved a lot of clicking and moving the mouse. “I’m just rewinding them.”

Hawthorne turned the screen. The CCTV was grey and grainy, much like what Monroe had once used to secure his haven in the eighties. It featured the backdoor and the corner of a dumpster. She scrolled through the uneventful footage.

At a flash of movement, she rewound. A girl tripped back against the dumpster, falling out of frame. There was a sudden dark shape and a man — one of the men from the hospital — smashed into the corner of the dumpster, falling face first onto the back step. After a minute, the girl pulled the man’s head from the step and clearly drank from him. Fangs weren’t visible, but she put her mouth to his neck and, despite the bloody nose, his mouth gaped open in pleasure.

“See if you can get a clear shot of her face,” said Zari.

“Once you do, delete it,” ordered Monroe. It wasn’t a completely horrific Masquerade breach, but it would start rumours he didn’t want to spend the next months dealing with. 

An old printer rattled as though getting ready to take off; a piece of paper jerked out of it. Jack winced as he handed it over.

“Poor girl,” he said.

Monroe had to agree. The picture was grainy and washed out, but, as she fell against the dumpster and looked back up, her fear was evident. If it was an act and how she hunted, it was a good one. Her strong angular jaw and small dark eyes set in concentration.

He took a picture of the print-out with his cell phone and sent it to Dawson. Monroe called and the thrall answered immediately.

“Mr Monroe, sir.”

“That photo’s the poacher. Check the back cameras at Miss Velour’s stripclub, from around 22:35 tonight. Put it on my tab from her. Get back to me when you have something.”

He hung up before Dawson could respond.

“It’s something, at least,” said Jack. “We can tell Garcia we’re on it.”

“Or, we could make it very difficult for her to operate,” said Zari, holding up her own phone. “The mortals could round her up.”

“We aren’t siccing LAPD on her,” said Monroe. “They’re too unpredictable.”

“Oh, come on, live a little,” said Zari with a smile. “What use is cultivating a little fame if we can’t use it from time to time?”

With Blue Moon’s increasing success, Monroe had found himself pushed into local and digital limelight. Often, he pretended to mislike it, but he breathed the adortion his humans had for him. Zari had a hundred thousand friends on MySpace, a local fashion lifestyle blog, and had no such reservations.

“You’re getting real close to Cammy talk,” warned Jack. He slipped a hand into his leather jacket and raised his chin, adopting a posh American accent. “What good are the kine if not serving their undead masters?”

“Give it a rest, you know that’s not what I meant.”

“Sure, _I_ know, but what about the baron?”

“Then, that’ll be my problem.”

“We’re all in the same coterie — it’s _our_ problem.”

“If Garcia wants to crack down on our freedom, he’ll have a lot more coming for him…”

Monroe tuned out their bickering and locked eyes with Hawthorne. Her job finished, she sat awkwardly behind the computer desk as Jack yelled — rather, ‘talked very loudly’ — over her. Hawthorne shook her head disapprovingly. Monroe mouthed _Children_ back at her.

His phone rang. Dawson.

“Mr Monroe, sir, I found something.”

“Go ahead, Mr Dawson.”

“Looks like she got into a car a few blocks down. Red Toyota Corolla, license plate 7-Romeo-Alpha-Delta-410.”

Monroe waited a moment, but it was clear Dawson had finished. “Any idea who owns it?”

“Uh, no, sir. I’ll work on that right now, sir.”

“Good idea.”

“I’m working on it right now, sir,” blurted Dawson. His tone grew desperate. “I’m sorry, sir, I wanted you to have the information immediately, sir. I’ll do better—”

Monroe hung up. Theoretically, Dawson made an excellent thrall. Former Marine Corps looking for a civilian job, sharp, used to following orders, enough sense to deal with Blue Moon’s owner from time to time. The blood did strange things to humans. At least, until their bodies and minds became used to it.

Hawthorne gave him a knowing look. “Young ghouls, eh?” she asked with a wry smile.

  
  


Charlie struggled to pull her key from the ignition. She was tired. Should’ve been tired. Her muscles felt refreshed. As though she hadn’t done anything today. Her mind lingered a million miles away, in the alley. She had barely made it through her shift. The twenty-four-seven Wal-Mart had been eerily quiet, filled with more employees than customers, but she still managed to not speak to a single person. Not even the ghost. The loneliness weighed on her. 

The house waited for her, just as empty, maybe even more. It looked friendly from the outside, like all the rest on the block. But the lawn grew wild, dandelions and straw-like grasses inching closer to her knees by the day. Inside, it looked much as it had last year and the year before. Furniture from the seventies cast long shadows. Picture frames showing a family — a mother, two daughters — at Disneyland, the LA Zoo, and in the hills slowly gathered dust.

She threw her backpack aside and reached to flip on the lights.

A blue glow flickered from the living room. Charlie groaned. Bella was watching _Pokemon_ or some trash. At — she checked her watch and winced — two in the morning. She stalked in, throwing aside her yellow Wal-Mart vest.

The TV wasn’t playing _Pokemon_ , though. It was _The Godfather_ , on a very low volume, and the person on the couch wasn’t a seven-year-old girl but a twenty-year-old man of questionable hygiene. He snored louder than the TV. Her anger melted as fast as it had come.

Charlie sat down next to him and shook his leg. “Come on, man. Get up.”

Dustin woke with a snort. He rubbed his eyes. “Oh, hey, Charlie. How was work?”

“You can go home, Dust. It’s late.”

He smiled sleepily. “That it? No ‘thank you’?”

She reached for the lamp and a dull yellow light turned on. “I appreciate the help, you know I do, but I don’t want you getting the wrong idea.”

Dustin’s lip curled in disgust. “I know you’re a lesbian. Can’t I just help a friend out?”

Charlie frowned at the coffee table. “Did you… dust?”

She gave the room another look. It was remarkably cleaner than when she had left it. The piling dishes had been cleaned away, the carpet showed vacuum streaks.

Dustin stretched. “Did I what?”

Charlie grimaced. “You know I can’t pay you back.”

“No big deal,” he insisted. “I’m with my parents, so I’m not paying rent. Got plenty of cash. I did help myself to a beer, though. Left you the rest.” He reached for the almost empty bottle and drained the rest of it. “Food in the fridge. House clean-ish. Bella’s in bed.”

“Thank you,” said Charlie heavily.

“No big deal,” he said again. He put a hand on her leg and rubbed the bare knee. His touch burned, as though he had a fever. “Promise. Damn, you’re cold.” 

He pulled a blanket down from the back of the couch. Charlie clutched it. In high school, they had all been good friends. Camping, hiking, surfing. Anything, so long as it was outdoors. The last two years Charlie found that having Bella had driven most of them away. Meg, Rita, Carlos. She had no time for anything anymore.

She sighed. The air exited her lungs but she didn’t inhale again. Her lungs stayed like deflated balloons in her chest. She lost herself in the stillness.

Dustin turned the movie up a bit louder, startling her. “Maybe we should make it a regular thing, huh? I can watch Bella for a night, you go out in the hills, get a break?”

Charlie flinched. “Maybe,” she allowed.

Despite her feelings, or lack of, Dustin smelled. He always smelled. He spent high school in a cloud of spray cologne but ditching the spray didn’t help much. He smelled a bit overripe, but Charlie found herself falling into the nuances. Some generic “man” scent of toiletries, maybe pine and sandalwood. The sour and the musk, the heat of it. It was Dustin, for as long as she’d known him, but something had changed. Now, it meant something else.

She had just ate.

“Don’t you have class tomorrow?” she protested.

“Not for another seven hours,” he said. He turned off the TV. “But, I’m sure you want to get some sleep.”

Charlie rubbed the back of her neck. She knew she should offer to let him crash, but something deep inside her warned against it. He might find out.

Find out _what_? That she didn’t sleep in the bed like a normal person? That nothing short of an earthquake could wake her up? That Bella would get ready for school by herself — dress, make breakfast, go down to the bus — and she would be comatose in the back of her closet until magically the sun went down?

She swallowed the fear. She couldn’t kick him out. “You can spend the night here, if you want,” she said. “There’s still a — spare room.”

Her mother’s bedroom, which they had cleaned out together. 

Dustin pulled her in for a one-armed hug. “Alright, I’ll stay. When does Bella get up for school?”

“Seven, the bus leaves at seven-thirty,” she said automatically.

Charlie led Dustin upstairs to the bedrooms. He gave her another flash of a smile before wishing her goodnight and shutting the door.

Charlie tore off her Wal-Mart uniform and stepped into the shower. The water felt steaming hot long before it produced any actual steam. She washed quickly and pulled on a pair of old sweats and a t-shirt. Alone, her room felt like a prison. It hadn’t changed much the last twenty years. A shelf of old track and field medals and plastic surfing trophies gathered dust. Her laundry basket overflowed, like always. Never enough time.

It was still hours until dawn. 

Dawn. Like it was something to chase away the monster into darkness.

Charlie shook her head of the bleak thoughts. Not a monster, just sick. She had no temperature. Literally, the thermometer read 69F. Sick with no insurance. And haunted. She would get through it, though. On her own.

She had just crawled into bed when there was a knock. 

At first, Charlie thought it was Dustin knocking things around in the spare room, or Oscar, the dog that had always been Bella’s dog, jumping from the little girl’s bed. 

Then, the doorbell rang. The sound filled her with dread.

Charlie threw off the covers and high tailed it down the stairs. Dustin was there first, though.

“Who the fuck calls in the middle of the night?” he asked. He wore only boxers and a t-shirt.

A sudden fear bubbled over her. “Don’t open it.” 

He gave her a look but still opened it a crack. A hand forced it the rest of the way and someone pushed their way past him.

“Hey, what?” he demanded.

The first person, a Black woman, might’ve been an off-duty model. Her tightly coiled black hair bounced with every step and she had the blank, fierce look of a girl on the runway. Her jeans were fashionably bleached and ripped, the huge black sweater hanging off the small shoulder. 

Even tall, she couldn’t have been more than a hundred and fifty pounds. And she _shoved_ Dustin. Not hard. It looked effortless, but he wasn’t any pushover. He had spent the last fifteen years rock climbing and surfing. But he slammed against the wall and fell flat on the ground. He didn’t move.

Charlie gasped and backed away.

“Ah, so Cleaver, then, is it?” the woman asked her. “Got bored with home-cooking, wanted a little take-out?”

Charlie raised her hands. She ran out of space to back up and felt the smooth resolution of the wall. Nowhere to go. Cornered.

Cornered.

The woman’s eyes glinted.

Predator.

Flee.

Run.

 _Run_.

Charlie darted to the left, but the woman was fast. Faster than was possible. It was simply a blur and Charlie crashed to the ground. The woman stood over her, a wooden stick in her hand.

Air came and left her mouth, but it did no good. She tried to sob but there was no breath to catch. “Please, whatever you want,” she said, “take it. My wallet’s in my bag. I don’t have much — _please_.”

As she shook, tears wet her eyes and started to fall. She brushed them away. Her hand came away with a bloody smear. Lots of blood. Like a nosebleed. Charlie crawled away from it, locking herself back into the corner.

Two men had entered behind the woman. One of the men stood over Dustin. He looked like an untamed biker, Chinese, with wild black hair and a worn leather jacket straining across his shoulders. 

“We said we was going to talk to her,” he said. “Doesn’t look much like talking.”

“We were told to deal with the poacher,” said the woman, spinning to face him, “I’m dealing with it.”

 _Now’s your chance. Weapon._ Now.

Charlie grabbed a vase of long-dead flowers and smashed it over the woman’s head. It shattered.

_Run._

The woman whirled back, but Charlie ran back into the kitchen. Deeper into the house. Bella. Backdoor. 

“Let me deal with her,” said the second man.

Charlie thought of Dustin but the voice shoved the boy out of her mind. 

_Bella. Backdoor_.

“Charlotte,” said the second man. 

As soon as he said her name, a wave of warm calm flowed through her shoulders. The tension left her. The fear left her. The voice screamed in the back of her mind — _why? what’s happening? run —_ but it was drowned out quickly. She stuttered to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, fighting the emotion.

“How do you know my—”

Her jaw slowly dropped. There, standing right there, the way the dim light cast half his face in shadow, the smooth eerie expression. He was the ghost. It was right now. It was happening _right now_. He came from this moment. His eyes pierced her. He offered a hand.

“Charlotte,” he said again, almost kindly, “do you know what you are?”

“Are you real?” she asked. She reached out a hand and grabbed a hold of his lapel. The expensive material scrunched in her hand. Her hand and voice trembled. “Who are you? How did you do that? Why are you following me?”

He raised an eyebrow. “My name’s Monroe. I can assure you, I’m very much real. You don’t have any idea what happened to you, do you?”

Slowly, she shook her head. “You better tell me.”

The other two were close behind him. The other man’s face opened in surprise.

“Fuck, man, that’s — I didn’t even think of that. Who just up and left her like this? That’s ice cold.”

“I don’t know, but we found her. She’s our responsibility until she’s not,” said Monroe in a voice that allowed no arguments.

The woman stowed the strange wooden stick under her sweater. She threw Charlie a wayward smile. “Fine,” she said. “But I don’t like this, Monroe. Someone Embracing and dumping a fledgling on us.”

“You don’t have to like it, unless you have another idea you do like,” he said. “Otherwise, get in the car, Zari.”

Reluctantly, Zari stalked out of the house.

The words washed over Charlie. _Embrace. Fledgling._ She told herself she didn’t understand them, but she did. She refused to give a name to the changes that had happened, but they called to mind certain movies. Certain books.

She redoubled her grip on Monroe’s jacket. “I need to know what’s happening right now _— don’t touch him_.”

The first man picked Dustin up and brushed him off. “Sorry, man,” he said to Dustin, “Zari gets a bit tunnel-visioned sometimes.”

Dustin, dazed, leaned against the wall for support. “Uh, dude, what?”

“No need to apologize,” said Monroe. He didn’t take his eyes off Charlie.

“It’s more for me than the square.”

“Charlotte, I will give you every answer you want but not here,” said Monroe.

“It’s Charlie,” she snarled.

Monroe nodded, accepting. “Charlie, we need to leave.”

Charlie swallowed. Bella was upstairs. If she wasn’t up already, if they stalled anymore, she definitely would be. Briskly, she nodded.

“Jack, take her,” ordered Monroe.

The biker stepped forward and gently prised her hand off Monroe’s jacket. She stuffed her feet into sneakers and let him lead her outside. Jack opened the door of a black SUV that sat on the street. 

Charlie crawled into the car and Jack followed her. The interior was luxurious, rich black leather that still smelled like new-car. She could barely see through the windows, they were tinted so darkly. It felt like stepping into another world. Zari leaned into the corner of the opposite bench, fixing her with an unblinking stare.

“What’re you going to do to Dustin?” asked Charlie, turning to Jack.

He shook his head. “Monroe will take care of the boy. He’ll go right back to bed and not even remember we stopped by.”

Charlie wiped her face again. She sniffed and felt the thick blood sniffle in. Like a nosebleed. Her hand came away too bloody. She wiped it off on her sweats. Where did all the blood come from?

The door opened and slammed as Monroe sat next to Zari.

A woman’s voice from the driver’s seat said, “Where are we headed?”

Monroe shook his head. “Anywhere. Just start driving, please.”

The car pulled away from curb and slid out into the street. A quiet thrum of house music echoed from speakers deep in the seats. Charlie wished the seats would swallow her. 

“The boy didn’t know or even suspect,” Monroe said quietly to Zari. “She didn’t tell him a thing.”

“That’s good, at least. What do you want to do with her?”

“I’m sitting right here,” snapped Charlie.

Zari glared and looked as though she wanted to snap back, but Monroe leaned forward, looking every inch an animatronic.

“You’re right,” he said. “Charlie, I’m sure you have questions. This is Zari, Jack Shen, and Audrey Hawthorne at the wheel. My name is Matthew Monroe. What do you know about what happened to you?”

Charlie stared and scrambled for words. Monroe knew, she realised. He knew exactly what was wrong with her. He wasn’t interested in excuses and lies. “I know that two weeks ago I went camping in Griffith Park. Some wild animal attacked me in the night — tore me up.” She struggled to move past the memory. Some of the eerieness left Monroe’s face and, briefly, he looked human. “I woke up hours later, alone, but I wasn’t hurt somehow. And I ran.”

“And you fed,” said Zari.

Charlie tried to summon that sob. To cry again. She should cry. It was terrible. Horrific. She had assaulted a stranger in a dark alley and fled the crime scene. Just like that guy had done to her. But her body didn’t react to her mind. It blunted the edge of her emotions.

“If it’s been two weeks,” said Monroe softly, “you must know what you are. Elsewise, the Beast has done a very good job keeping you alive. The Beast,” he clarified, seeing her face, “that little voice that tells you what to do.”

Charlie shook her head. “No, I don’t — Of course, I don’t hear voices. It’s—”

Jack patted her leg, but spoke to Monroe. “Don’t make her say the V-word. Just, rip off the band-aid.”

“That creature that attacked you, actually killed you,” said Monroe swiftly. “He was — to use a mortal frame of reference — a vampire. Once he killed you, he fed you his own blood and you rose with the Beast, a certain animus that drives vampiric instincts.”

Charlie swallowed the word with a certain amount of relief. “I thought I was losing it,” she confessed. She realised how stupid it sounded suddenly. “You’re not making this up, right?”

Monroe didn’t so much as blink. He was still and deathly serious. “The last centuries have seen a very successful propaganda campaign,” he said, “though, it makes a fledgling’s first nights rather uncomfortable.”

“Are you cold?” asked Jack. He smiled, but it was sad. “Are you hungry? Like, really hungry? But everytime you eat food, you just vomit it back up. You haven’t seen daylight in two weeks. You—”

A horrible thought occurred to her. She raised her eyes back to Monroe. “You guys are vampire hunters, right? You’re going to kill me. That’s why you’ve been following me.”

“No,” said Monroe immediately. “I have no plans to kill you. Ignorance is not worthy of a death sentence. You didn’t know what you were doing.”

That didn’t reassure Charlie any. _I have no plans to kill you_ wasn’t the same as _I won’t kill you._

Zari smiled. At the edges of her smile were long teeth, curved canines like a wolf. _Fangs_. “We aren’t hunters either.”

Charlie covered her mouth. The small voice — the Beast, he had called it — clamoured, frightened. She tensed, backing further away from them.

_Competition. Enemy. Predator. Trapped. Out. Out. OUT._

Her hands fumbled at the door handle. Nails scratched at the soft leather, dragging white grooves.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” said Jack. He pulled her back onto the bench. His arms were like stone, like iron. She shrieked at the restraint and tried to pry his hands off her. “We’re not going to hurt you. We’re kindred, too — vampires, whatever.”

Powerful waves of calm crushed her again. It felt like a blanket, deadening her fear and senses. She was in danger. She knew she was in danger. Vampires. But, suddenly, it didn’t feel so imminent anymore.

“ _Calm down_ , relax,” said Monroe.

It seemed like the most sensible thing in the world. Why was she so worked up? Embarrassing, really, to be restrained like a toddler with a tantrum.

Slowly, Charlie relaxed in Jack’s grip and he released her. 

“The Beast is an instinct and it’ll keep you alive,” said Monroe, “but it has its own ways of operating. It will make you flee from fire and sun before you know they will kill you, but it will also tear you into a frenzy—”

Charlie shook the last cobwebs of artificial peace from the dregs of her mind. “What the hell did you just do to me?” she demanded.

Monroe started at the interruption. “I calmed you down. You’re safe here.”

“ _How_?” she repeated inanely.

“Presence,” said Jack. “Could feel it from here. Dominate.”

“That really doesn’t help me.” She turned to face Jack.

“It’s a Discipline,” he explained. “Consider it like a superpower. Presence can manipulate emotions and feelings. Dominate is Simon Says.”

Charlie felt sick to her stomach. She could still feel the lingering tendrils urging her to relax, whispering sweet nothings in the back of her mind. She glowered at Monroe. “Don’t do that to me.”

He shrugged. “I will respect your choice, even if it ends up hurting you at some point.”

“Is that how you found me?” she asked Jack. “Through, like, superpowers?”

“Your leftovers,” said Zari indifferently. “A body we needed to clean up, and then some poor unfortunates in the hospital.”

Jack snarled. “There are nicer ways to say that.”

Charlie stared as she understood what Zari said. “I… killed someone?” she whispered.

“It was about two weeks ago,” said Monroe. “He must’ve been your first meal.”

Meal. Food. Charlie buried her face in her hands. Coming down from the campsite, she struggled even to drive. It was like a tornado inside her. She shook as she walked. He had just been walking down the street. She pounced, knocking them to the ground, instincts taking over. He was a person. Had been.

“No, no, no.” She shook her head. “He was alive when I left him.”

“Humans can die from blood loss,” said Jack. “Or end up in the hospital. You can’t take that much.”

“You can feed on animal blood, if you want,” said Monroe.

Zari wrinkled her nose. “That’s disgusting. Teach the girl to hunt.”

“It’s not palatable,” he agreed, “but it’ll sustain you and keep the hunger at bay. Fledglings generally find it easier, for a little while.”

The Beast in the back of her mind made the same expression Zari did. No thrill of the hunt. No biting into fresh hot meat. Instantly, her mind was filled with images of blood, the delicious taste, the sensual satisfaction of sinking her teeth into meat. Her saliva glands tingled, then she realised they were her fangs, hidden away.

“What’s the cure for this?” she demanded. She shut her eyes and tried to shake the thoughts away. “How do I go back to normal?”

Silence greeted her question and it was all the answer she needed. It fell hard on her shoulders. This wasn’t happening.

“Charlie, I don’t want you to live in false hope,” said Monroe. “But there is no cure. Fanciful notions like killing your sire, never drinking blood, finding true love, they’re all just dreams. I’m sorry.”

Charlie bit her lip hard and raised her head. The eerieness had left him and there was something that might’ve been sympathy there. She hated sympathy and pushed it away. “What about the others? Are they okay? The ones in hospital?”

“All fine,” said Jack. “They’ll need a bit of time, but they’ll recover.”

“That’s all well and good, but we still need to take her to the baron,” said Monroe regretfully.

Jack put his arm around her, as though to protect her from Monroe’s words. Zari glared daggers at him.

“Absolutely not,” she said. “Give the girl one night at least.”

“He needs to know the poaching will stop,” said Monroe, “and he’ll need to know if there’s another kindred in his realm.”

Baron. Realm. She had to laugh.

“Vampires don’t really wear capes and have, like, a secret king?” asked Charlie.

“Not in LA,” said Monroe, amused. “Think of your local baron more like a godfather than a king. And don’t tell him I said that.”

A phone vibrated. It took Charlie a second to realise it was hers. She pulled it out of her pocket. Dustin. She realised the others all stared at her.

“I need to take this,” she muttered.

She answered, her eyes still flickering over the vampires.

“What’s going on? Are you okay?” asked Dustin, frantic. “I just got up to go to the bathroom and there’s, like, broken glass in the living room and you’re not anywhere.”

In the silent car, his voice felt too loud and tinny.

“I’m fine,” said Charlie. She hunted for a lie. “Ron called me back. He offered me another late shift. I knocked over a plant, trying to leave in the dark.”

“Fuck — that,” said Dustin, outraged. “He doesn’t have that right. _I’ll_ pay you fifty bucks if you get home and get some sleep. You’ve been working all day _and_ all night. You can’t just work twenty-four hours!”

Charlie swallowed the lie by deception. She had spent the day in a coma-like sleep, not working. “Go back to bed, please,” she pleaded. “I’ll be back by the time you get up in the morning.”

Dustin groaned. “This isn’t fair.”

Charlie couldn’t argue with that.

“Guess I’ll catch you in the morning,” he said at last. “Hope you have a good shift.”

“Thanks,” she said quietly. “Get some sleep.”

He hung up. The deception hung heavy over her heart.

“You did well,” said Monroe. “Miss Hawthorne, take us to Greystone.”

Jack rubbed her shoulder. “There’s a lot of fruity names for it — Masquerade, Silence of the Blood, our secret ways — but rule one about Vampire Club is that no one talks about Vampire Club.”

“I got that,” she whispered.

“Relationships with humans are difficult,” said Monroe. “Best course of action is to break up with your boyfriend, limit interactions to professional capacities.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” said Charlie automatically. It felt like a betrayal to admit they were _only_ friends, considering how big a role he played in her life. Him and Bella were the only family she had left.

“Then, that should make things easier,” said Zari. “Humans are liabilities. If the baron doesn’t like the looks of you, what do you think he’ll do to Smelly Boy back home?”

“You — you wouldn’t,” said Charlie.

Zari raised a sculpted eyebrow. “Every kindred is a killer, even you,” she said. “Most of us have done far, far worse.”

“And LA is hardly stable,” said Monroe with distaste. “We can get into the politics later, but LA is run by a patchwork of undead gangs and mobsters who’ve been warring almost constantly since the forties.”

“ _Nineteen_ -forties?” asked Charlie weakly.

He didn’t smile. “Yes, not the eighteen-forties, even I’m not quite that old.”

“That’s a thing, then?” she asked. “Like, immortality?”

“Conditional,” said Monroe. “If you don’t do anything stupid, if you’re clever, if no one kills you — then, yes. I was Embraced in 1873.”

Charlie turned to Jack, who grinned. “Nineteen fifty-five.”

“A lady never reveals her age,” said Zari with a satisfied smirk.

Jack rolled his eyes so hard Charlie could hear them like marbles. “Naomi Campbell over there was turned in eighty-two.”

“Sir,” came the voice from the driver’s seat, “I sent word ahead. There’s a Rant tonight.”

Nothing changed in Monroe’s expression, but Charlie felt his mood take a downturn. “Thank you, Miss Hawthorne,” he said. He leaned forward and got Charlie’s full attention again. “I have two rules, for any who want to work with me. First, you must trust me. I will do everything in my power to keep you safe. Second, do not give me a reason to not trust you. Do not lie, cheat, or backstab me. I make a bad enemy. Understand?”

Charlie nodded quickly, disturbed by the sudden seriousness. 

“Good, because you’re about to walk into the most dangerous place in LA, at one of the worst times. I’ll do what I can to get you out of it alive.”

The car slowed to a crawl and then a stop. The windows were too dark to make out much, but it sounded like a raucous party. Shouting, shrieking, laughter. And then, gunshots.


	3. The Baron and the Witch

Greystone Manor was on fire. As always. Before Jeremy MacNeil had commandeered it, it had been the private residence of some oil tycoon. Yet, it was in the middle of Hollywood, just off Sunset at the base of the hills, and boasted expansive private lawns and a small castle on the grounds. The Camarilla might’ve turned it into a living timepiece, filled with ghouled servants in period dress and works of art. But LA was Anarch domain, and so Clan Brujah turned it upside down.

Bonfires marked the lawns and gardens like living, flickering stars. El Hermandad and others in Garcia’s good graces hung around them. Most of them looked tough, or at least pretended. Guns hung blatantly on hips. Fangs glinted in the firelight. Everywhere, they held red solo cups of snake beer. More than once, someone brave took a running jump at the bonfires. Their acrobatics brought cheers and wolf whistles from the crowd.

Monroe leashed his Beast tightly as it smelled the smoke. It scrabbled in his chest. He longed for Hawthorne to accompany him —  _ someone _ who didn’t feel the Beast’s primal fear of fire — but she drove quietly away to park. Ghouls weren’t allowed on Greystone.

Charlie stared at the nearest bonfire, shrinking away from it. Jack offered his arm and whispered to her. She smiled shakily and took it, white knuckling on his jacket. So new. So new her blood had barely dried.

Fireworks splayed the sky with red and white, exploding with a terrible crack.

Monroe offered Zari his own arm and she linked with him, flashing a dazzling smile and affecting a thick accent. “Oh, darling, I thought you’d never ask.”

It was a long walk up to the house and the path took them past several bonfires. A few eyes caught them, turned away, cowed or fearful. Others glared hatefully or spat, mostly for Monroe’s clan. Whispers started. The Fifth Estate never came to Greystone. Something was wrong. New girl. Who sired?

Worse than the eyes, still, were the blood dolls. Humans who had spent the night being fed on — the latest of many, many nights. They lounged in lawn furniture or discarded in the grass, barely conscious, ill, and paler than the nearby kindred. Their weak eyes tracked them. A few with lingering strength clung to kindred, pleading in papery voices for another bite.

Monroe glanced behind him. Jack whispered to Charlie again, pulling her to walk past the nearest doll. Charlie stared, open-mouthed, horrified. Poor girl. This was hardly an easy transition at the best of times. This was not the best of times.

Gunshots rang out again.

Charlie wrenched at Jack’s arm to turn. Monroe followed her eye. He wasn’t sure who had thought of it first, but the Anarchs had taken to shooting each other for sport. They styled it like Mexican stand-offs and riddled each other with lead. Of course, bullets didn’t kill kindred easily, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

The latest loser picked himself off the lawn and spat out a mouthful of shattered teeth and bullets. Teeth would grow back. He reached for another drink and staggered off. The victor blew kisses to the onlookers. 

“What… what is this?” hissed Charlie.

“Vampires having fun,” said Jack dryly.

A vicious game of football played across the estately green lawns. Football played with Potence, Celerity, and all manner of kindred blood powers. Bones shattered at the tackle and most ran faster than a mortal eye could follow.

A garden of strange rose bushes lined the garden immediately in front of the house. The leaves looked sickly, speckled with black and grey, but the roses flourished and smelled like fresh blood. As they passed them, the thorny branches waved in a wind that didn’t exist and reached tantalizingly for bare skin. The ghoulish rose bushes had been a gift from Zari some years ago.

The beauty of her roses enraptured Zari and she reached out a dazed hand. The thorns sensed her and brushed across her palm, drawing blood, drinking through the diseased leaves.

A man stood on the balcony overlooking the rose garden. A brown-skinned Dominican Ventrue, though the shared clan meant nothing. Rameriz was Garcia’s man to the core. He sneered, fangs in his mouth.

“What do you want, Monroe?” he asked.

“We found the poacher.”

Rameriz lifted a hand and beckoned. Monroe dragged Zari from the roses, though it took a moment and she hissed at him. The four of them ascended the stone steps to the courtyard in front of the manor house. Another three kindred awaited them surrounding a glass fire pit. As if they too needed to advertise their courage. A fourth read a book by firelight.

“Monroe found that poacher,” Rameriz relayed.

“Oh, yes, I heard,” said Salvador Garcia softly. He set down his book. An old world Spanish accent clung to the words. “Excellent work.”

Sometimes, it was better to not know the legends. Charlie didn’t approach him with the same hero-worship that most in LA did. She didn’t know how he had personally killed the last Camarilla prince, or authored the Manifesto, or had been named MacNeil’s successor to his beloved Barony of Angels. She didn’t know that Camarilla across the world howled for his blood.

To her, Salvador Garcia was simply a handsome and wirey Hispanic man with shiny, long dark hair pulled into a ponytail and a neatly curled moustache. The Embrace had given ash to his brown skin and fangs to his charming smile. He wore flannel and jeans, like most of his brothers, and, by mortal guess, looked younger than many of them. That was little here nor there, though. Garcia was one of only a handful in LA to be sired before the start of the twentieth century.

“Is this the poacher?” he asked, indicating Charlie. He smiled with equal measure of charm and Presence. The expression was inviting and Charlie smiled with him, taken in.

“Yes, she is,” said Monroe. “We found her living on the edge of Nines’s territory.”

Garcia sipped from his own red cup as he considered her. “What’s your story, girl? We all have one.”

Charlie opened her mouth, but Monroe stepped in.

“She’s a new fledgling. Her unknown sire abandoned her two weeks ago.”

Garcia glared at him, irked. “What a tragic mess,” he said sorrowfully. “Clearly, whoever sired her has moved on. I will take care of this matter, Monroe. Leave me with her.”

_ Taking care _ of a fledgling could mean many things. Kill her, educate her, leave her to struggle amongst the gangs and fight for her right to exist. Garcia was vocal about what he termed the sunrise problem; new fledglings, often left to their own devices in Anarch domains, frequently would rather face the dawn than the night. Survival of the fittest.

“No,” said Monroe.

Garcia’s men exchanged amused looks. Garcia himself set down his drink and adjusted himself in his chair, sinking lower. To anyone else, he could’ve simply been getting comfortable. But, uncrossing his long legs and firmly planting his feet on the ground, Garcia had readied to launch himself into a fight. Monroe knew that.  _ Garcia knew _ that Monroe would know it.

“No, what?” asked Garcia with that divine smile. It had fast left his eyes and his voice cracked like a whip. “Your duty has been finished. The poacher has been apprehended. I am baron. She is my responsibility now.”

“No,  _ sir _ ,” said Monroe. He dared not take his eyes off Garcia again. Garcia laughed at the honorific and his men joined him. “I Account for the fledgling.”

The mere word set off a wave he hadn’t anticipated. Many things happened at once. One of Garcia’s men hissed and spat at the ground. Jack pushed Charlie behind him and snarled in return. Zari let go of Monroe’s arm and twirled out of the way to edge behind him. Rameriz cracked knuckles, the last went for a weapon. Only Garcia and Monroe stayed motionless.

Garcia chuckled wanly. He reached for his pocket. Monroe held himself steady, but it was only a paper packet of cigarettes. He lit one off the bonfire and brought it to his lips. The sight of it made Monroe’s Beast whimper in his chest. Fire, ashes and embers so close. It was a trick Garcia had mastered to establish dominance.

Monroe would not let him win.

“This isn’t the Tower, Ventrue,” said Garcia. Any pretense of friendliness had vanished. “You can’t throw around words like ‘Account’ and expect us to follow the Tower’s chains.”

“She’s under my protection.” Monroe tensed. “Are those words you understand better, baron?” 

It wasn’t a fair fight — him, Zari, Jack, and a fledgling against three of El Hermandad, not even counting Garcia or Rameriz — but he would take a beating if it meant getting his way. It wouldn’t be lethal. He hoped. It was just how Anarchs communicated.

The Brujah stopped, looking to Garcia for orders.

His dark eyes narrowed. “Is she now? Why? What would prompt this selfless act of charity?”

“She’s tasted the blood,” said Monroe. “She’s one of our kind. It’s our duty to instruct the younger generations—”

Garcia raised his cup and indicated with a finger. “She has the right to stand without the chained leashes of sires and masters. We recognise no lineages, no honour of ancestors, no clans—”

“And yet you still call me ‘Ventrue’,” snapped Monroe before he could stop himself. It was cruel that the only ones to honour him as part of the clan were Anarchs.

Garica threw the remains of his cup at Monroe. The blood-scented beer splashed over his face and front. He wiped it out of his eyes, unflinching.

“Your  _ cousins _ and  _ brothers _ of the Camarilla would destroy all that we have built,” said Garcia. Monroe recognised the sermon-tone he had perfected over the last century. In a blink, Garcia stood, moustache quivering in righteous anger. “The Tower would enslave us once more, deny us our  _ libertas _ . No more would we be free to live as we please. The Ventrue have proved their sniveling loyalty to the feudal establishment they built, an oppressive system enforced by the spilled blood of thousands of neonates, the Gargoyle experiments, the surveillance state of princes and primogen.” Garcia raised a hand and Monroe readied for the punch. He counted the names on his fingers. “Louis Fortier. David Geduld. Jesus Rameriz. You.”

“Me,” said Monroe cordially.

“Four Ventrue in eighty years have I met in Los Angeles. I have fought beside three of them. I name them brothers. I would die for them. Even they know one of their cousins is on probation until otherwise,” said Garcia. His voice softened, an invitation to prove him wrong.

Monroe had nothing to prove.

“Third Principle of the Status Perfectus,” he said calmly. “ ‘We offer a home to all kindred of all Generations and clans who will agree to dwell in harmony with us.’ I am here in harmony, as is young Miss Bradley. Telling you of her existence, in your barony, was a mere courtesy. I will leave with her tonight and you will not stop me.”

Garcia lost his vicious smile and became something truly cold and frightening. Monroe had spent the better part of a century antagonizing the centuries’ old princes and primogen of the Camarilla with his mere existence. One baron didn’t scare him.

“Not in front of me,” said Garcia through clenched teeth. “You come to me, to slander at my party, in  _ my _ domain, to  _ my _ face, and threaten me with my own words? Not in front of me. Do not profane the Status Perfectus with lips that supped by a silver spoon and think you know it better than me.”

Silver spoon. How dare he. Monroe swallowed his anger. This wasn’t the place. He could take the insult, as false as it was. He might’ve pushed his luck further. He could uproot from LA. He always could. Monroe relaxed and resisted the urge to start the fight. As far as he had drifted from Clan Ventrue, he still had their blood. And Ventrue didn’t fight with claws. 

“I meant no disrespect, my baron, sir,” he said gravely. 

And he bowed. Nice and low. Hand on the small of his back, with a flourish. The formal sort that a kindred hadn’t seen since the Revolts. 

Garcia laughed, as Monroe knew he would. It was hearty, infectious, a joyous mocking ring from the gut that sent a shiver down his spine. His men stood down and joined in the laughter. “Sometimes, I think you’ve forgotten where you are. Keep your fledgling. But I want a word with you, Ventrue. Alone.”

Monroe turned back to Zari. “Get them back to the car,” he said shortly.

As much grief as she liked to give him, she understood the danger and left immediately.

Garcia nodded to his men and they followed the coterie down into the gardens. Left alone, Monroe was tempted to bow again, if only to aggravate and amuse the baron. Garcia was a hard man to read. Monroe had spent many of his early nights in California with Jeremy MacNeil’s men, solidifying his stake in the city, drinking snake beer, wearing flannel. Garcia was quick to laugh and quick to shoot. He ran his gang like a brotherhood. East LA was his in a way very few kindred could claim. Spread thin and in the glitz and grit of Angels that suited him so ill, Garcia had begun to unravel. If Monroe thought it would be well received, he would’ve offered to assist. With his guards and the trimmings of his power gone, Garcia suddenly felt much smaller.

Garcia walked uncomfortably close to Monroe. Even supernatural hearing in the gardens wouldn’t have caught his words. Monroe didn’t flinch, so much as breathe or blink. Neither did Garcia. His flat brown eyes analyzed him closely. 

“The Fifth Estate is now four,” said Garcia. “That’s enough. Don’t let it get to five.”

There was no fear in the voice, only a warning, but Monroe stifled a laugh.

“I don’t mean to threaten you,” he said, confused. “Some wayward fledgling is more a hindrance than an ally, you know that.”

Garcia raised a finger to silence him. “Los Angeles needs no more of your kind’s influence. You are right. By my own damned words and by MacNeil’s offer, you have a place in the Free States, but I don’t like having you here.”

“You don’t need to like me,” said Monroe. “I’ve given my word and I will again. I swear it on the sun, for so long as you permit me to live in LA, I live in your barony in peace. I am autarkis and claim independence from all sects and my clan. I do not break my word.”

Garcia nodded, taking in the words. He smiled. To humour him, Monroe returned it. 

“Words from the Tower are like water,” Garcia said softly. “They flow into whatever shape is needed, then filter away through your fingers as if they were never there.”

The insult spoke to the cornerstone of Monroe’s identity and his honour. The Beast felt it and lurched into his throat.

_ Kill him. Ventrue bow to no lesser Cainites. He doesn’t respect you. Kill him. So close. His will in in your grasp. All you have to do is take it. Kill him.  _

“My word is iron,” he replied simply. “It’s all I have to my name.”

Garcia took a drag on his cigarette. The ember glowed, hot smoldering fire inches from his face. The stilted smoke blew around him. Garcia needed to know he was in charge. Against every instinct he had, Monroe flinched. 

“I think it’s time you left Greystone,” Garcia whispered.

Monroe stepped back and retreated into the gardens before he did something stupid. The Beast entertained itself with visions of Garcia on his knees, bloody, groveling, his will broken. It was a pretty image.

He forced himself to keep moving as he felt the baron’s eye on him. In spite of Garcia’s bold words about the Camarilla surveillance state, Monroe knew how he left the gardens would be reported back. He walked slowly, traded words with faces he recognised, and threw a wayward football back to the scrambling licks. It was the nature of kindred. Predators were untrustworthy.

The Rolls-Royce idled in the parking lot. Hawthorne gunned it before he had even shut the door.

“What the hell was that?” asked Charlie. In the safety of the car, she couldn’t keep herself quiet. Her eyes bulged, shiny and white. “Were those  _ people _ in there? What was that baron going to do with me? What did he mean by the Tower and the State? How’re you going to Account me? What’s a Ventrue?”

“You couldn’t have dealt with some of this before I returned?” Monroe asked Zari impatiently.

“Please, we only just got past ‘vampires don’t die to bullets’,” she scoffed.

“Mr Monroe,” asked Hawthorne, “is there anywhere in particular you wish to go?”

He ran a hand through his hair, thinking. “Call your contact at Cedars Sinai,” he decided. “We need to visit the Red Witch.” He glanced down at the ruddy pink beer stain that ran down his front.

“Tonight, sir?” In her apprehension, Hawthorne fell back in the familiar formal protocol of Ventrue ghouls.

“Yes, tonight. And throw me a spare shirt, if you would.”

Hawthorne clicked open the glove compartment and handed back a new shrink-wrapped dress shirt. Monroe stripped to his undershirt and changed quickly. He could do little about the scent of snake beer, but he cared more about keeping appearances with Orsay than she did.

“I’m waiting,” said Charlie. She shook, like a bomb about to go off. Her hands wrung themselves dry in her lap. “I’m gonna need some damn answers.”

“I will give you the basics, for now,” said Monroe irritably. He hadn’t have to give this talk for too long. Yet, he knew in a few short years he would miss this moment again. “The two sects of kindred you should concern yourself with are the Camarilla, known as the Ivory Tower, and the Anarch Movement. The Camarilla  _ is _ that secret dark eternal vampire court you probably expected when I mentioned the baron. The Anarchs rebelled against that sort of rule. In the 1940s, California was established as the Free State in the Second Anarch Revolts. The Camarilla rules almost all of America and Europe so this was quite the shock.

“The Accounting is a Tradition of the Camarilla, one of their laws. It entails the teaching and guardianship of newly made fledglings. It’s meant to be the sire — the maker — and he shares in the glory, punishment, and destruction of the fledgling, if need be. The baron agreed to it; I’m responsible for you. I swear it, I will do everything in my power to ensure you thrive in your new life.”

Charlie nodded vicariously, her hair shaking.

“Are you following?” he asked.

She kept nodding, but stopped shaking. “Why did he want to  _ take care of me _ ? What was he going to do?”

“Probably kill you, or let you kill yourself,” said Zari with a shrug.

Charlie’s mouth fell open. “ _ Why _ ?” The single word was a shrill note of confusion as her world betrayed her.

Monroe grimaced. There was no clear, good answer.

“You poached,” said Zari. “The baron charged us with Silver Lake, to make sure it ran smoothly, and then you dropped a body, fed on the humans.”

“It’s not her fault,” snapped Jack. “She didn’t know.”

“The baron would’ve wanted her dead anyway,” said Monroe. At Charlie’s horrified expression, he continued, “The reason any of us live is because the one above us — the baron, in this case — either finds us useful or would be subject to too much backlash to kill us. New arrivals or fledglings are wrenches in the gears.”

“That’s really fucked up,” said Charlie.

Monroe nodded. She was starting to get it.

“So, those were all the vam—kindred in LA?”

Jack laughed. “Oh, God no. There’s probably two, three hundred maybe at this point. A lot of them keep to themselves.”

“Those were the baron’s gang — El Hermandad, the brotherhood — and some of the others in Hollywood or Beverley Hills,” said Zari.

“Where are we going now?”

“The fiend,” said Jack grimly.

“Now, now, there’s no need to be rude,” said Monroe. “Orsay is a lovely woman and a more powerful witch than even the Tremere would want to admit.”

“When you say ‘witch’ do you mean…  _ witch _ ?” asked Charlie in disbelief. She laughed, too high and shrill. “You can’t be. I mean, this isn’t  _ Harry Potter _ .”

“Blood magic,” said Monroe. “Our blood’s capable of many, many things. Some clans have the power to control minds and memories, others emotions, others turn invisible, turn into animals. These are all Disciplines. Each clan has three innate to their blood, but can learn others with dedication and a teacher. Some clans go one step further and have created magical traditions. The Anarchs here in LA are lucky. Clan Tremere is loyal to the Camarilla to a fault, but there are a few wayward members of other clans.”

“What clan do I belong to?” asked Charlie. For the first time, a genuine flicker of excitement shone in her eyes. “What super powers do I get?”

“I don’t know,” said Monroe. “That’s what Orsay will tell us.”

They made a brief detour first. Hawthorne pulled the Rolls-Royce into the parking lot at a private hospital, leaving them idling for some time before returning with a large black trunk and continuing onwards.

Beverly Glen sat in the no-man’s land of the hills. It was one of the most exclusive and wealthy neighbourhoods in the world. To live in the Glen was to be surrounded by A-list actors and the one-percent, but to have a mile between neighbours. It was ideal to hide magical practices, with enough earth and water to satisfy the most elemental of Tzimisce. Monroe ought to know. He had given the mansion as a gift when Orsay had warded his haven and venue.

The manor was archaic, untouched since it had been built in the late nineteenth century. A quaint porch ringed the lower level. Victorian windows protruded from the higher levels. A river babbled contentedly some distance away. Every window had been covered by heavy drapes, blocking out sunlight, and looked to be deserted.

Hawthorne stopped in front of the manor. As they left the car, she retrieved the large black trunk from the back. Monroe took the other handle. She was more than strong enough, but it was unwieldy. 

“The Witch lives in Scooby Doo’s house,” said Charlie blandly.

“It’s Beverly Glen,” said Monroe defensively. 

Jack patted the Rolls-Royce fondly. “Um, I think I’ll wait for you guys out here.”

“Yes,” said Zari promptly, “and I’ll keep an eye on him.”

Monroe glared. “Have it your way. Come, Charlie, we have business with Orsay.”

They made their way up the paving stones. The garden had been well kept — ghouls, assuredly other gifts from Anarchs seeking magical aide. As the floorboards of the porch creaked under their steps, the door opened.

Monroe felt he had met many sorts. Toreador who kept a miasma of Presence-enhanced allure, mortals who had been Embraced to preserve their own beauty, and Ashley Swan, but never had he seen quite Orsay’s match. She was utterly otherworldly. Her skin was pale like bone, bleached from all life, but everything else was red. Her hair was no natural colour, only shades lighter than black and brought to the top of her head with pearly white pins. She dressed in red, as well, in full skirts that dragged on the floor behind her and grew wrinkled and dirty. Her strong eastern European features turned into a smile.

Monroe returned it. “Good evening, Madame Orsay, I’m sorry to trouble you so late.”

“Never a trouble, Mr Monroe.” Her eyes were the colour of fresh blood as she looked over Hawthorne and Charlie. “I’m afraid I don’t know you.”

“I’m new,” she said with a short wave.

Orsay pulled Charlie into a handshake. “Orsay Grimaldi, of Clan Tzimisce,” she said somberly. “Honoured to meet you. Please, come in.”

Despite Charlie’s rude comment, the house wasn’t abandoned in the slightest. It was comfortable, if a few decades out of fashion. While others might’ve kept books on shelves, Orsay kept them everywhere. Stacked in corners, on chairs, left spine-broken on tables, up along the stairs. 

Charlie tripped over a pile of books by the entrance. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

Orsay waved an errant hand and a gust of wind summoned itself, righting the books again. “No trouble,” she said cheerily. “None at all.”

Monroe and Hawthorne dropped the trunk in the parlour room. Hawthorne stood against the far wall, her hands folded behind her and eyes on the middle distance. The room had no paint on the walls, but bookshelves instead. Rather than books, funnily enough, they were filled with things — pottery, feathers, dried flowers, animal skulls, tree branches, glass jars of dirt and stones and wriggling insects. 

Orsay sat on the couch and gestured to Charlie to sit next to her. Charlie exchanged a fearful look with Monroe, but did as she was bade. The witch examined her face closely, memorizing every detail. 

“What is it that has brought you to me tonight?” she asked.

Orsay raised a hand to brush away a lock of Charlie’s hair, the fingers trailing down the skin, lingering over the plain features. Neither blinked.

“I’d like you to read her,” said Monroe. “Clan, Generation, perhaps even sire, if you can see that.”

His voice broke the spell and Orsay raised her eyes to him. “I could.” She reached for the black trunk, but Monroe put a hand on it to keep it closed.

“She’s new,” he reminded her. “I assure you, it’s worth your time.”

Orsay considered matters. “You have always paid me well. I suppose I may trust you will again for such a simple spell.”

“It’s as much as I paid for the scrying.”

She chuckled. “Well, then, I thank you for your generosity.”

Orsay stood and retrieved an earthen pot from the shelf. She filled the pot with fresh earth, spotting it with a ring of thirteen stones. She took a thick living worm in hand and returned to the couch. It curled in her grasp as she dropped it in the center.

Orsay reached out her hand to Charlie. “And, now the blood.”

Monroe sat next to Charlie, who kept looking for reassurance. “What— How do you want it?” she asked. “How much?”

Orsay swiftly took the hand and drew a deep line across the veins with a sharp red nail. Charlie cried out. Blood wept from the wound as she held it over the bowl. As soon as it dripped on the worm, the creature withered and smoked, curling against assault. Had it a voice, it would’ve screamed.

Charlie ripped her arm back. The wound kept bleeding as she stared at it. It would’ve been dangerous to a mortal.

“Wounds don’t bleed unless you will them to,” said Monroe. “Our hearts don’t beat. Focus on closing it. Will it whole.”

Charlie stared at him in disbelief, but stared at the wound. Her brow knit in concentration. The blood flow slowed, leaving only a deep line in her skin. The line grew shallower still, the edges pulling together until there was no evidence it had ever been there. Amazed, Charlie analyzed the wrist from every angle.

“Good job,” said Monroe with a faint smile.

The smoke emanating from the pottery bowl thickened into a black cloud, like a living thing. It completely engulfed Orsay’s face until — suddenly — it didn’t. The smoke retreated back into the bowl in a flash. One of the stones had cracked and bled a black ichor.

“Twelfth childe of Malkav,” said Orsay with authority. “Sired into the night fifteen sunlit days ago.”

“Malkav,” repeated Monroe. Finding a new lone fledgling was always a cause for sorrow, grief for their confusion and fear, but that only boded far worse. “She’s a Malkavian.”

Charlie felt his change in mood. “What’s a Malkavian?”

“Her sire is a man,” said Orsay. “While I don’t know his name, I could draw him.”

“Please,” said Monroe.

Orsay reached for a sketch pad under the coffee table. The pages were full of incredibly detailed faces, some hideous and monstrous, others normal, others more alien and beautiful than her. She flipped to a new page and put pencil to it.

“Tell me —” began Charlie, but it was Orsay who answered.

“Clan of the Moon,” she said. “Children of Malkav. There are worse names.”

Before Orsay could continue with the pomp, Monroe ripped the band-aid off. “Every clan has a set of powers that come naturally to them, as well as a culture, some looser than others, and a curse. The Malkavian curse is, for lack of a better word, madness.”

“Lunatics,” continued Orsay. “Seers. Madmen.”

Charlie shook her head. “No, that’s —  _ No _ .”

Monroe placed a hand on her leg. “When we met at your house, you asked if I was real, if I was a ghost,” he said gently. “Have you seen me before?”

Charlie kept shaking her head. “No, no, not really. Just, like, an image. No one else saw you, you just appeared — offered a hand — just like you did in my house.”

“An omen,” said Orsay ominously.

Monroe longed to snap at her, but this wasn’t his domain. This was hard enough without her providing a terrifying image of Charlie’s potential future.

“Malkavians bare glimpses of terrible insight into people and the futures,” she said. “More often, though, it is merely hallucinations that bare little relation to reality. The burden drives them howling mad.”

Charlie scurried away from Orsay as far as she could, as though distance could make the words go away.

“It’s just Auspex run amok,” said Monroe. “Even Toreador have been known to get that insight on occasion.”

“I doubt that,” said Orsay as she ploughed on. “Clan Tzimisce bares Auspex as well and I have never fallen prey to visions or proclamations of doom. To a one, Malkavians are mad. It is the curse of Malkav for his lies unto Caine.”

Unable to sit still anymore, Charlie stood and paced like a trapped animal across the parlour. Monroe grimaced, at a loss.

“I’m not insane,” said Charlie. She repeated it to herself, more frantically. “Are there any other Malkavians here? There gotta be, right? Someone  _ made _ me.”

“There are some,” said Monroe. “But I wouldn’t advise meeting with them.”

“Why?” she snapped. “Are they crazy?”

“No,” said Monroe, just as Orsay said, “Yes.”

Orsay didn’t even look up. “Though I recommend Thersea Voerman, or Professor Nelson. Both are well-adjusted to the curse of Malkav.”

“The Professor is a good idea,” allowed Monroe. “He claims domain over UCLA and runs some night classes, if you’re interested in our history.”

“Am I going to keep having visions and stuff?” asked Charlie. She fixed Monroe with a wide-eyed stare that he associated with the least well-adjusted of Malkavians.

“I won’t lie to you,” he said. “You probably will. The one about me was probably unique — a colossal tipping point in your life. Others might be more… nonsensical. Frightening.”

“What other ‘stuff’ do you have?” asked Orsay with interest. She glanced up from her sketch.

Charlie shrugged desperately. “When I met you, I — well, there was a voice.”

“A voice?” she asked with a thin smile. “What did it say?”

“The sword has no guard.”

Monroe shut his eyes to gather himself. It was the exact Malkavian nonsense he feared; in hindsight, a wise prophecy, but in the moment, utterly useless and a cause for blind paranoia.

“I once belonged to the Sword of Caine,” prompted Orsay. “The Sabbat, a cult that worships Caine as our progenitor and the First Vampire. I would call that an apt description of the sect.”

A scared smile flickered on Charlie’s face. “But where did the voice come from?”

Orsay shrugged and resumed her sketching. “Consider Auspex a psychic radio. Tzimisce learn to tune it to others’ hidden thoughts, Toreador to sensory pleasures, while Malkavians cannot help but leave it on and scanning the waves.”

“Can you teach me to turn it off?” asked Charlie. “What would it cost?” She knelt and reached for the trunk.

“I want you to know that I didn’t want you to look in there,” said Monroe swiftly.

She opened it. The lid slammed shut and she stared at him with new eyes, all thoughts of Clan Malkavian a hundred miles away.

“I did tell you—”

“There’s a  _ body _ in there.”

Monroe turned to Orsay. “Two, actually. They died earlier this week, no trauma to the bones.”

“Excellent,” said Orsay, still drawing. “You are too kind.”

Charlie stepped away from the trunk, still staring at it. Her hands shook.

“I picked them up from a morgue,” said Monroe gently. “I didn’t kill them myself.”

Charlie whipped around to face Orsay. “What do you do with them?”

Ignorance her shield, Monroe wondered if any would have dared to brazenly question a Tzimisce sorceress in their own domain. Even after dealing with her for two decades, Orsay still gave off an aura of eggshells and the impression she might devour you for cracking them.

Instead, Orsay smiled like a ghost. She took an ornate white pin from her hair. It was a delicate rendering of a snake eating its own tail, her clan’s sigil. The elaborate hairstyle unraveled in crimped waves. To demonstrate, she took the pin and stretched the teeth into long fangs. The handle bent, taking the image of her clenched palm.

Orsay put the pin in Charlie’s hand and she examined it. In her hands, it was rock hard.

Monroe regretted the words he had to give. “It’s human bone.”

She dropped it like it bit her. The pin clattered to the floor and Orsay chuckled as she retrieved and reshaped it.

“The signature Discipline of Clan Tzimisce,” she said. “Vicissitude, the skill of shaping flesh and bone beyond natural limits. Many shape the flesh of others to their pleasure and leave the human consciousness and life intact to prevent decay in their works. I prefer bone. Less messy. Unfortunately, human bodies have few bones and not so many can afford to go missing at once.” She turned to address him. “I do so appreciate the two, Mr Monroe. One would have been sufficient. Will you let me alter your ghoul yet? Perhaps she could be more useful with a few more eyes or talons? I do have always wanted to try tentacles.”

Charlie stopped shaking quite so much, but, had she been human still, she looked like she might have vomited. He felt the flicker of a long slumbering conscious. 

“Consider it a gift, my dear,” said Monroe with a smile. It always benefited from being on a witch’s good side. “I’m very satisfied with my retainer’s services.”

Orsay tore off the top page of the sketch pad and handed it to Charlie. “Your sire, Miss Bradley.”

“I didn’t tell you my name,” she said, dumbstruck.

“You gave me your blood.”

The sketch pad showed the face of a young man. His hair was frazzled, left light in the pencil drawing, and his features appeared as though carved with a rugged spoon.

“I don’t know him,” said Monroe, frowning. The Barony of Angels wasn’t so large that he shouldn’t have known everyone by face. Regardless, the Voerman sisters of Santa Monica and the Professor stood as Malkavian pillars, however shaky, and would know better than him.

Charlie’s mouth curled in on itself as she stared at the image of her sire. Done with it, she silently passed it to Monroe. He folded the sketch carefully and put it in his pocket. 

“Thank you,” he said to Orsay, “you’ve been very helpful tonight. We won’t impose on your hospitality any longer.”

“As you wish.” Orsay stood and escorted them out of her house. “You know where I am.”

Hawthorne led the way, taking the keys out of her pocket. The headlights blinked as she hurried back into the driver’s seat.

Monroe put a comforting hand around Charlie. She flinched from the touch in a familiar way — horror, wounded humanity, distrust. Each microexpression plunged a dagger in his heart. He dropped his hand.

“You did very well tonight,” he said. “Not only with the witch, but with the baron. I’m sure it’s been a long night, though.” She nodded weakly. “Let’s get you home.”

They piled into the backseat and Hawthorne smoothly navigated down the windy roads in the hills. Jack and Zari hadn’t managed to kill each other in the meanwhile, but they did dominate the conversation. Zari wondered if Orsay would accept her ghoulish roses as payment for a little magical tattoo artistry, while Jack thought she was stupid to trust a Tzimisce with her body. Zari snapped back that most Anarchs in LA had used Orsay’s services for the aesthetics that didn’t take to vampire form: tattoos, piercings, hair dye, alternate lengths and styles. The argument distracted them from asking about Charlie’s clan or sire. 

Charlie hung lankly in the corner, eyes glazed as she stared at the black window. Not merely quiet, but mute. Monroe struggled to come up with a way to comfort. That would come in time. For now, he was another monster. 

Maybe the baron was right. Maybe he had overreached himself. If Garcia took it as a threat, Monroe might have greater things to worry about than his new charge’s delicate psyche. When he had first arrived in LA, perhaps he might’ve challenged a smaller, less established baron. Now, though, he had roots, vulnerabilities, things that complicated matters such as going to war.

Declaring war with Garcia would also mean war with the whole of the Free States.

Monroe made a note to talk with Hawthorne later about shoring the defences around the house.

Hawthorne gasped — surprised. She had served kindred for two and a half centuries. Nothing surprised her. Monroe braced himself. An impact slammed into the car and spun it off the road. Airbags deployed at the front. None in the backseat wore a seatbelt. The motion threw them to the floor in a tangle of limbs. Eventually, the car came to a stop, at an angle, skidding to the shoulder.

“Someone hit us,” reported Hawthorne. Her voice was strained, breathless. “Car — Van. Deliberate.” A gun’s safety clicked off and she opened her door.

A cacophony of bullets cracked and then shattered the windshield, burying themselves in the leather.

“Beverly Glen’s a stupid place for a hit,” groaned Jack. He threw open his door and left to face the threat. Gunshots followed him.

“Are you okay?” asked Monroe. He took a firm hold of Charlie, who still lay collapsed on the floor.

Charlie blinked. She trembled. “What—Who are they?”

“I’ll tell you when I know,” he said. He took the gun from his own belt and pushed it into her hands. “Point and click if anyone comes in. Don’t leave.” 

He looked up to Zari, who had closed Jack’s door again. “Stay here.”

She nodded, more frightened than she wanted to admit. The order was unnecessary. She had a gun, but it was more for defensive purposes. The two women huddled down in the footwell.

Monroe slammed the door on his way out. The odd bullet bit into a tree trunk or clanged against the wreckage of his car. Their car had hit his head-on, driving both of them off the road. Headlights had been smashed, but emergency lights blinked red, giving just enough illumination to see by. Jack was in the thick of it. Three, four human-shaped, if not humans, grappled with the Gangrel, struggling to bring him down.

Steel shone, raised for the blow.

Monroe covered the distance quickly and wrenched the steel out of the hand. The wrist snapped under his grip and the man crumpled with a shriek. Humans. Monroe had expected a heavy fire axe. It was a sword. Not any medieval artifact, but one forged in the modern age. Unlike Charlie’s prediction, this sword did in fact have a guard. Hunters. But, Jack should’ve been able to physically overpower humans. Why was he still in human shape? Monroe expected a mountain lion. Too late, he realised something was wrong.

The one on the ground hissed through clenched teeth. He wore combat fatigues with a tactical vest. He raised a cross from around his neck. “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.”

The pain was striking, a psychic agony that Monroe hadn’t felt for years. Decades. True Faith. Jack roared but lost his strength in the human’s arms.

Monroe reached out with his mind and found the human’s will. “ _ Shut up _ ,” he commanded. The will didn’t resist, but Monroe’s power withered as he touched it.

The Beast’s frantic fear and Monroe’s were one and the same. The fear of sun and fire and God. It drove him to his knees and the sound that left his lips was a gutteral animal whimper. 

“Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus Christ—”

A gunshot echoed. The man fell back into the grass, stunned, a bullet in the side of his head. The other side of his head opened up, spraying bits of brain and flesh. Hawthorne came from behind the car, pistol leveled down her sight.

“Thanks for that,” said Monroe.

In the sudden silence, Jack turned on the humans grabbing him. He knocked their heads together and they slid bonelessly, more dead than unconscious.

“The  _ fuck _ was that?” he demanded. “Hunters with Bible verses?”

Monroe picked up the sword. “I think I know.”

Footsteps pounded away, a runner. He passed in front of the lights.

“ _ Stop _ ,” Monroe shouted.

The figure heard him, he had to have. He struggled on for a few more steps and then stopped. The will writhed in Monroe’s grasp like a living thing. 

“ _ Come back _ ,” he said.

The figure turned around and moved stiffly, like a badly played marionette. Every step was a struggle, one that he lost. He dressed simply, in grey cargo pants and a t-shirt, but he was younger than the others. Perhaps in his twenties. To his credit, he wasn’t afraid.

“Society of Saint Leopold, I presume?” asked Monroe. “Inquisitors?”

The man gained an inch of freedom and went for a pocket on his belt. He whipped a flask at Monroe, who flinched as he caught a face of tepid holy water.

“And, not a true believer,” he said. “Nice to know.” He wiped it off. “That’s two shirts tonight.”

The Vatican’s once-influential army of hunters hadn’t seen true power since the Inquisition, but every now and then stirred up trouble. Their LA chapter in East LA had caused Garcia to make the area off-limits, unless it was an attempt to destroy them.

“Who sent you after us?” asked Jack.

The inquisitor and Monroe answered at the same time. “God.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Nah, man. You don’t just shoot up a car in the Glen. How’d you know?”

“I had just made the decision to see the witch,” said Monroe. “We must’ve been followed from Greystone.”

Jack gestured to the baby-faced inquisitor. “Not by  _ this _ , come on. God’s army has a daycare?”

The inquisitor tried to stand. Monroe dropped his hold on the man’s will and instead leveled the sword on his shoulders, pushing until he fell to his knees. The threat kept him still.

“God’s army has tipsters,” said Monroe coldly.

“You’ll just kill me,” said the inquisitor with a tremor. “I won’t betray my brothers.”

“You will tell me who sent you,” assured Monroe. “Whether you do it now or later is your choice. Later, you will like it far less.”

“Aren’t we feeling melodramatic tonight?” called Zari.

In the silence, Zari had thought it safe to leave the car. She sauntered towards them.

“He’s cute,” she admitted. She ran a loving hand through his thick blonde hair and he winced into the edge of the sword. Blood glistened on the steel. In the light of the emergency lights, they both glinted red. Smelled delightful. “Strong. Skilled. Dangerous.”

Though it wasn’t directed at them, Monroe felt the backsplash of the vulgar Presence. The inquisitor’s hateful eyes softened as he turned to Zari. She knelt next to him, whispering her adoration. As she spoke, he leaned into the gentle caress. Monroe lowered the sword.

“Now, my darling, I know you didn’t mean to hurt me,” she whispered.

He shook his head. “No, never.”

“Who wanted you to hurt me?” 

“The Ace of Spades.”

Monroe knew better than to speak and risk breaking the trance, but that was terrible news. The Ace was an independent hunter, a legend told to neonates to get them to behave. Most hunters were jokes or merely lucky, but she had spent ten years being a menace to undead society. She never killed in the same city twice. Once she had dropped a body and her literal calling card, she was gone.

That begged the question, though.

Why was Monroe not dead yet?

“Ace,” said Zari waspishly. “She’s such a bad person, wanting to hurt us.”

“Yes, she is.”

“Tell me about how the Ace came to you.”

The inquisitor hesitated. “She came to us a few days ago. Said there were too many targets in LA. Gave us a few.”

“Which one did you come here tonight for?”

“None of them. She had a new one. Last minute. It was all so rushed. A local music producer, Matt Monroe.”

Zari bit through her wrist and pulled the inquisitor’s head back roughly by his hair. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said mildly.

Jack shrugged.

“That’s not a good idea,” said Monroe as the once-inquisitor eagerly drank Zari’s blood. “The Society will know what he is when he goes back, he’ll be useless as an infiltrator.”

Zari laughed. “He won’t go back to the Society. The witch will take care of the bodies. He was just another gone missing on a failed mission.”

Monroe shook his head and left Zari to continue ghouling her plaything. She could make her own decisions.

Hawthorne leaned over the trunk of the car, using the wreckage for cover and support. Her face, normally a healthy tan, had grown pale and shiny. She panted shallowly. She smelled of blood. Her blood, a unique bouquet finessed by her age and his own blood.

“You alright?” she asked tensely.

Monroe raised the sword to show her. “Got you a new toy.”

She laughed and winced.

“Did they hit you?” he asked.

Hawthorne only smiled. She wouldn’t ask for help unless she was on death’s door and even then, only a polite request. “I’ll be fine, sir.”

Monroe reached out a hand and she let him move her coat aside. Bullets had shredded through her blouse and she bled profusely. Only the blood of Clan Ventrue must’ve kept her upright.

“Oh, dear,” he said. “Will you need a doctor?”

She shook her head.

Monroe rolled up his sleeve and used the edge of the sword to open his veins. “You’ll feel better,” he promised.

Hawthorne winced softly as she moved to latch onto the arm. She fed desperately, clinging to him more than the car as she regained a semblance of strength. He let it go on far too long. As she drank, his own hunger grew and the slumbering Beast growled. He put an arm around her waist to support her and dropped the sword.

When he felt he couldn’t give anymore, Monroe closed the wound. Hawthorne nodded her thanks and stepped away, standing of her own volition. She grimaced as she picked up the fallen sword.

“Nice balance,” she commented. “Society?”

Monroe nodded. “I’m ready to get out of here,” he said pointedly. “And call Orsay. Tell her there are a few more bodies here for her.”

“I’ll find a way,” she said, retreating with her new sword. “The Rolls-Royce isn’t drivable.”

Monroe put a hand on the glossy black paint job. “What a shame.” He opened the backseat. “Tomorrow, report it stolen and—” A gunshot echoed and he staggered as the bullet landed in his chest solidly.

Hawthorne whipped back around, moving as fast as she could.

Monroe shook his head and raised a hand. “It’s okay,” he said hoarsely.

“Oh, god, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” Charlie dropped the gun and covered her mouth. Her eyes were round like saucers. “I just — I heard all those guns going off, and then a lot of talking. Zari didn’t come back. I figured—”

Monroe forced a smile and crawled into the backseat. “Calm down, it’s alright. Everything is fine.” He took his gun back. “They were hunters. We took care of them.”

“You killed them.”

He couldn’t figure out if it was an accusation or she was merely asking for more information. “Not all of them. Zari took one to be her ghoul.”

Charlie evidently didn’t want to know what that meant. For the best. It was enough for one night. She hung her head in her her hands. Her shoulders shook.

“I know,” he said sincerely. He moved to sit next to her and offered his arms. She flinched away and he settled for sitting awkwardly next to her. The powerful scent of kindred vitae leaked through her eyes as she began to cry to herself. “It’s too much, I know, but I can promise you that you will make it through this.”

She wiped her tears and she recoiled in horror at the blood. “Wha — What is this?”

“You are crying blood,” he said gently. “You are dead. You don’t have any other fluids in your body.”

Her head fell into her arms and she cried only harder.

A snide voice echoed in the back of his mind. Not the Beast, but a beast of another nature. Fowler. The bastard was eighty years dead, murdered in the Anarch Revolts, and still he lived in Monroe’s head. Fowler, his own sire, warned him that coddling would only leave him with a weak neonate who wouldn’t be able to stand in the night. A shame and waste of resources. She needed to be ripped from her irrelevant human life, taught to hunt, harness her Disciplines, sharpen her mind. Withering human emotions should be left in the past. And Monroe was a coward, unable to do what needed to be done.

He put his hand on the fledgling’s leg and attempted to console her as the events of the night broke her. He refused to be  _ her _ monster. 


	4. Associates

Charlie let the silence of the house greet her. It looked the same, but everything hit different. She recognised herself in the photographs. The furniture carried memories of movie nights and childish slumber parties, the dining room table of family game night, but she felt like she stood on the other side of thick frosted glass. 

Dawn weighed heavy on her eyelids, but the weight on her heart threatened to break her again. Shards of blue glass crunched under her sneakers. She started before remembering how Zari had attacked her. Had that been only earlier tonight?

The stolen sports car — stolen from a driveway at Beverley Glen, nonetheless — pulled out of her driveway and took the vampires far away.

She climbed the stairs, resolved, but terrified. The Beast rebelled in her chest, crushing her with a foreboding dread. She needed to. Monroe’s parting words as they exchanged numbers lingered in her mind.

_ Whatever I can do, however I can help you, you only need to ask.  _

But he didn’t know. They didn’t get it. Even Zari hadn’t been human in thirty years. They had more in common with mythical monsters than humans.

Charlie pushed open the door to her parents’ bedroom. Dustin snored in the bed. She crawled to sit next to him and shook him.

He snorted and jerked awake. He pulled the sheet over his nipples. “Hell,” he muttered. “What time is it?”

“About five. I need to tell you something,” she said. “Before this all gets out of hand. Come downstairs. I need you to wake up.”

The Beast whined in her ear.  _ Don’t do this. You don’t need to. He’s only human. It’ll only bring grief. Drink him instead. He’ll love it. Tasty. _

Charlie cringed at the thought. As soon as she started thinking of it, she couldn’t stop. It was like a one-track mind: blood.

Dustin squinted. “I’m awake,” he murmured. “What’s up?”

Charlie pulled the sheet off him and he groaned. “Downstairs.”

Reluctantly, he pulled on his t-shirt from last night and followed her downstairs in his boxers. He yawned until they sat in the living room and Charlie turned to face him. He frowned and pointed. “What’s that?”

Charlie glanced down. Her grey sweats and t-shirt had been stained with her tears. “Blood,” she said in a small voice.

Dustin woke up a bit more. “You didn’t go to work, did you? Charlie, what did you do?”

“Please, just don’t say anything until I finished,” she pleaded. 

Confused, he nodded, and she started. She told him of the attack at Griffith Park. She told him about the terrible hunger, the weakness and pain, and how she had attacked a stranger. How she instinctively feared the sun and had slept in the closet since her blinds weren’t light-tight. How she hadn’t eaten food or drank water in two weeks. How she had attacked others, baiting rapists, and drinking their blood. When she got to the events of the last few hours, Dustin stopped her.

“Do you think you’re a vampire?” he asked cautiously, as though he were trying to humour her.

Charlie took his hand and put it on her neck. It took him a moment, but he realised she had no pulse.

“I died in the park,” she said. “And the thing that killed me brought me back.”

Dustin scratched the back of his head. “I’m sorry, Charlie, this is nuts. You’re just sick. You need to go to a doctor.”

For once, Charlie and the Beast were on the same side. 

“No,” she snapped. “That’s a terrible idea. I shouldn’t even be telling you, but I can’t do this by myself. I don’t want to keep lying to you.”

He chewed his lip, brow drawn in confusion. He wanted to believe her. “Prove it,” he said. “Do something that I can’t just rationalise away. Sure, your pulse is low and you’re cold, but that doesn’t mean you’re a creature of the night.”

For a small moment, she considered feeding on him. Not the Beast. Her. As soon as it was formed, the thought revolted her. She couldn’t. The fangs slipped out before she even realised.

Dustin’s eyes grew to the size of dinner plates. “Holy fucking shit,” he whispered. He reached out a hand. “Can you go like this?” He peeled his lips back from his teeth.

Charlie did, slowly, and he touched the edge. The heat on the cool tooth sent a seductive shiver down her spine. She had spent too much time with mirrors, examining them, playing with their razor-sharp edges. They weren’t like Oscar’s. They were curved like canine teeth, but sharper, not just for tearing through flesh but for making incisions.

“Those are… vampire fangs,” Dustin admitted. “That’s ridiculous.”

She swallowed. Her fangs clacked against her teeth as she talked. “Dust, this scares the hell out of me. I don’t know what’s going to happen with me or Bella—”

“Bella will always be fine,” he said. “I’ll take care of you.” 

He wrapped his arms around her and the rest of the night tumbled out of her. Her vision of Monroe, the baron, the Red Witch in Beverly Glen, the hunters. Dustin listened quietly and she relaxed in his arms.

“You’re safe now,” he insisted. “And, you know, I’m fine to come over during the day and watch Bella.”

Charlie buried her face further in his shirt. “Thank you.”

“What else are friends for?” he asked. “This might even be cool. Can you turn into a bat?”

Charlie smiled shyly. “I don’t know. Maybe. I’d have to ask them.”

Oscar jumped on the couch next to them. The border collie snuffled under Dustin’s hand and he pet him. Oscar eyed Charlie with a growl.

“I had to quit working at Carmine’s,” she said quietly. “I can’t work day shifts, so they let me go.”

Dustin shook his head. “We’ll figure this out. Do you need money?”

“No,” she said. The pile of unpaid bills on the kitchen table said otherwise, but he had already bought Bella groceries and cleaned the house. She didn’t have to take his money, too.

Oscar was worried. She didn’t know because of any freaky vampire magic. She just knew the dog. His eyebrows flickered sadly, almost like he understood. He crawled closer and dropped his head on Dustin’s lap. Oscar hadn’t always been so friendly with other people, though. He was always Bella’s dog.

“Bella,” she realised suddenly. She turned and saw the girl at the bottom of the stairs.

Bella cowered in the doorframe, in a set of Spongebob pyjamas. Like Charlie and their mother, she had the same wavy ragged dark hair and freckles. “I couldn’t sleep,” she said meekly.

Charlie pushed Oscar to the floor. “It’s almost five thirty,” she said. “You should go back to bed.”

Bella scurried back up the stairs, Charlie close behind her. “But I don’t wanna sleep. Mr Darcy’s scared of the monster—”

“ _ Get _ .”

Oscar followed Bella back into her bedroom. It was pink and disorderly, a mess of hand-me-down Barbies and Pokemon action figures across the floor. Clothes rarely made it into the laundry basket. Bella jumped into her bed. Charlie tucked her back in.

“I had bad dreams,” Bella complained. She grabbed for the stuffed cat she had named Mr Darcy and stuffed him under her arm. “Mr Darcy kept waking me up because there’s monsters outside.”

Charlie made an exasperated show of opening the window and sticking her head out. “Nothing there,” she announced. “Monsters have better things to do than bother little girls.”

Charlie perched on the edge of the bed. Bella grabbed for her hands, playing with the nails. Oscar curled next to her. 

“They bother Mr Darcy, not me,” grumbled Bella.

“Then you tell Mr Darcy that monsters don’t bother cats either.”

Bella crunched her face up and waggled her finger at him. Charlie felt her heart ache. It was the same expression their mom used to make.

“Bad dreams suck,” said Charlie softly. “But you need your sleep. You have school in the morning.”

Bella’s whole face crunched into a deeper frown. “Are we gonna have to move?” she asked fearfully. “I don’t wanna move. This is Mom’s house.”

“We won’t move,” promised Charlie. “It’s our house.” Charlie kissed their joined hands. “Now, I have to go to work soon, so I’ll be gone when you wake up.”

Bella nodded sadly. “I’m wearing the Pikachu dress tomorrow and having Frosted Flakes for breakfast. Will you pick me up from school?”

“No, I won’t,” she admitted. “But I’ll be home for dinner. What do you want for dinner?”

“Ice cream,” said Bella at once. “Ice cream sundaes with strawberries and caramel and sprinkles.”

Why not?

Charlie laughed. “I’ll get caramel on my way home.”

Bella grinned. “Okay. I can sleep now. Goodnight. I love you.”

“Love you too, Bells. Get some sleep.” Charlie leaned down and kissed her sister on the forehead before closing the door on her way out.

Dustin had followed them upstairs. “I’ll stay here for a few days,” he whispered. “Make sure she gets to school okay.”

“I’d appreciate it,” said Charlie. “But only a few days, I’ll figure something out.”

“ _ We’ll _ figure something out,” corrected Dustin. “Remember, you wanted to bring me into this. I’m not going to let you go it alone.”

“Thanks, man.”

“Anytime.”

Dustin gave her a smile as they exchanged good nights and he went back to bed. Dawn was fast approaching. Charlie threw her blood-stained sweats and t-shirt in the vague direction of the laundry basket. There was so much to worry about and so little to do about it. What if Bella told a teacher that she spent so much time at home alone? What if Child Services took her away or — even worse — showed up during the day? What if Bella figured out Charlie was a vampire and told someone? What if the hunters came back and hurt her? What if the baron ignored Monroe and just killed her? What happened when Monroe and Zari and Jack came back? What would they do to Dustin or Bella? What if the visions didn’t stop? What if she kept hearing voices?

She crawled in the back of her closet and covered her curled up body with heavy blankets. She felt like an alien, a refugee from the sun. In the precious minutes before she lost consciousness, all Charlie could do was worry.

  
  


Monroe fingered the bullet he had pulled from his chest. The wound still was an indent in his ribs, mostly healed. His fingers played over the surface of the metal as he stared at his phone. It was a smart phone. Blackberry, equipped with email and internet. Hawthorne had handled the details, but it was encrypted. It was as secure as lines could get, she promised. It carried the same phone number Monroe had used for decades, in case one of his old contacts wanted to get back in touch. Each number was saved under an innocuous handle. 

But not this one.

It was long, a fifteen digit international number, not one that he recognised. A simple Google search told him the area code came from Amsterdam. It came with a single text message.

_ I will be in the State on 3 December. _

Monroe knew who had sent the message. He knew only one kindred who hail from Amsterdam. It was simple enough. He had nearly six weeks to fret. It didn’t require any action on his part, but the mere contact reminded him of the debt he was burdened with. Three years. It would come due, sooner than he had imagined.

He had written and deleted a dozen responses. In the time, the twilight of dusk had deepened and darkened, Hawthorne had woke from her nap, and the kitchen smelled of strong coffee. Pour over, Columbian, two sugars, no milk.

Finally, he sent a reply.

_ I am at your disposal.  _

The reply from Amsterdam took only minutes.

_ As I am at yours. _

The words filled him with an ache he might’ve called homesickness, had the clan been anything to be homesick for. Every interaction Monroe had had with him had left him wanting to trust him.

_ Ace is here. She has my scent _ .

He was too respectful to offer immediate assistance in another’s domain, let alone LA, so far from his precious Europe.

_ Condolences. Let me know if I can help. _

Monroe turned off his phone before he did anything stupid. Conversing with Amsterdam in the middle of the Anarch Free State was beyond stupid.

Hawthorne brought her cup of coffee out into the living room. After the Anarch Revolts had killed his sire and sent him fleeing to the Camarilla, he and Hawthorne had lived on the road for sixty years. Their house was an unfortunate victim of this. The basic furniture was modern, stylish, and overly expensive, but it was buried under masses of what others would politely term “crap”. A tape recorder and record player, four or five half-finished chess games, touristy knick-knacks from LA, old VHSs, and music memorabilia, signed records, and concert tickets spanning the last five decades.

“Are you alright?” asked Hawthorne.

He tucked away his phone. “We need to deal with the Ace, sooner rather than later. Someone told her that I was a vampire.”

“The Society is what the Ace sent after you,” reminded Hawthorne. “They’ll figure out soon their first hit squad didn’t come back.”

Monroe shook the words away. “Ashley will  _ love _ taking the Society out of the picture. A bunch of Catholic prudes and warriors of God? He’ll adore it. The Ace is what we need to worry about.”

“Where do you want to start?” Hawthorne set her coffee down and took a notepad from her pants pocket. She carried it with her everywhere, but Monroe had never seen her take a single note.

“Blue Moon,” he considered. “Any artists we’ve signed recently, any new employees in the last six months. And deal with the owner. Make sure he isn’t a leak.”

Unlike many, he preferred to operate without the blood bond, as much as was possible. Aside from his security staff and Dawson, none had tasted his blood. The loyalty and fondness they had for him was entirely mundane. Therefore, less reliable. Perhaps this concession to his conscience had been a mistake.

Hawthorne nodded. “I’ll check the records, make some inquiries.”

“I’ll check in on my usual vessels,” he said, lapsing into silence as he thought.

“I filed the police report for the car,” she said. “Apparently, three nights ago, it was stolen. Someone will pull it from the Glen soon, riddled with bullets. You know how LA is.”

“Violent cities do have their charms, I admit,” said Monroe. The piles of bodies and violent crime made a casual backdrop for kindred. “For now, I want Dawson to follow us in a second car, to observe any tails.” He reconsidered. “Dawson, with two of his men, armed. We were lucky in the Glen and might not be again.”

She drank deeply from her coffee, wincing as she leaned forward. “I’ll arrange things with Dawson.”

Monroe frowned. “How are you healing up?”

“Very well, sir.”

“You only call me ‘sir’ when you’re hiding something.”

Hawthorne placed a tender hand on her chest, where the bullets had torn through the night before. Clan Ventrue’s command of Fortitude spared her heart, but the bullets had still done their damage. “Even with the blood, broken bones will take a few more days.”

“Would bedrest help?”

“I am fit for duty,” she said stiffly.

“That wasn’t the question I asked.”

The professionalism wavered in her eyes. She sighed. “The pain isn’t debilitating, but, were we to enter another combat situation, I would not be at full strength.”

“Take some medicine, whatever you need to be comfortable, and go back to bed,” said Monroe. He squared his shoulders fully and sat up. “Consider it an order. I am more than capable of conducting myself without your presence.”

She chuckled and winced again, holding her ribs. “Thank you, Mr Monroe.”

_ Mr Monroe _ .  _ Miss Hawthorne.  _ He never tired of how quaint it all was. The remnants of her formal etiquette, armor among ghouls serving ancient regal monsters, even though they had been close housemates for sixty years and he had known her as his sire’s ghoul all his life.

She inclined her head in respect as she moved to stand, but he caught her hand. It was warm, not hot like most mortals. She sat, confused.

“It’s a new decade,” he reminded her. “It only seems prudent I ask once more—”

“No.”

She never interrupted him. Ever. Among Ventrue, the stuffiest and most noble of clans, it would be enough for an elder to kill a neonate — let alone a ghoul. There was no fear in her eyes, though. She met his stare, resolved.

Monroe kissed her knuckles. “I’ll respect it, but you know my position.”

“As you know mine.” 

As he let go of her hand, she stood and retired with her coffee to her personal bedroom.

In an Anarch domain, he didn’t need anyone’s permission to gift the Embrace on a mortal. By all means, an heirloom ghoul in the eyes of the Camarilla was a great asset. Trading it for a childe was a net loss for him, not to mention losing his daylight aide. But he couldn’t Embrace Hawthorne if she wished to remain a mortal, or whatever she considered herself.

Monroe pulled out his phone again and texted Zari.

_ Heading to blue tonight. Bring Ash. _

Zari responded in moments.  _ Ill pass it on. No one BRINGS him. _

Jack gave a perfunctory “ok” to the same text, but Charlie’s answer confused him for a moment.

_ I’m working tonight. What’s happening? _

Monroe frowned as he understood.  _ Meet me at your house in 20min _ .

  
  


Charlie couldn’t remember the last time she had seen Bella so excited. She had a bowl of ice cream that was bigger than her face, half whipped cream, covered with layers of strawberry jelly and caramel, and so did Oscar and Mr Darcy. Bella threw fistfuls of sprinkles at the bowl, laughing as they landed. Half of them landed on the floor. Every single one of them grated on Charlie’s frazzled nerves.

Charlie put away her phone and struggled to enjoy it. She ran a hand over Bella’s curly hair. “Having fun?”

Bella beamed up, all white teeth and dimples. “Best dinner ever. Can we have ice cream party every night?”

“Maybe sometimes,” Charlie allowed.

Her mind raced. Monroe was coming here. Again. She couldn’t let him see Bella. Absolutely not. Dustin had to work tonight, too. There was no one to watch her.

Charlie crouched down next to Bella. “Listen, someone very important is coming here soon. When the doorbell rings, go upstairs and hide under the covers.”

Bella promptly shut up and squinted. “Are you going on a date? Is she pretty?”

Charlie scoffed. “Absolutely not. It’s a man. He has to do with my work. Boring adult stuff.”

“Oh. Okay.”

The lie didn’t hurt as much as how easily Bella swallowed it along with another bowl of ice cream.

The doorbell rang suddenly, far ahead of his twenty minute warning. The sound filled Charlie with panic.

“Please, go hide.” 

Charlie hustled her sister out of the kitchen. Bella crawled up the stairs on all fours, sitting on the top step along with Oscar. She wrapped her arms around the dog’s neck.

Charlie quickly cleaned away most of the dinner mess — open carton of ice cream, sticky jars of sauce, and Bella’s half-eaten bowl. She didn’t eat. Monroe would know that. As far as he knew, she lived alone. She knocked the pictures of her family flat.

The doorbell rang again.

“Coming,” she yelled.

She plastered a smile over her fear as she ripped open the door.

“Evening,” said Monroe with a nod. He looked immaculate and at least a few tax brackets above the neighbourhood. He didn’t wear a tie with the suit jacket, but that and the jeans did little to dispel the formal rich image.

“Hey,” she said, blocking his sight into the house and crossing her arms. “What do you want?”

He frowned, confused by the hostility. “I’d rather discuss this in private.”

Charlie turned away and felt him follow her. While Monroe was distracted by closing the door, Charlie leaned around the corner to see Bella still sitting on the top step. Charlie fixed her with a glare and Bella scurried backwards into her room. The door leaned closed.

“I smell dog,” said Monroe, wrinkling his nose. “I understand they are man’s best friend, but animals tend not to like us.”

“Oscar never liked me before,” said Charlie. “He was my mom’s.”

“Yes,” he said regretfully, “the matter of human acquaintances is something else we should get to. Where are your parents?”

“A father was never in the picture. Mom’s dead. A car accident last year.”

“My apologies,” he said, and he seemed to mean it.

Charlie led him to the living room. They sat on opposite ends of a dark tweed couch. She turned off the TV and curled up in her corner. Monroe sat stiffly in his.

“Do you have any living family?” he asked tactfully.

“No.”

“That young man who was here the other night — a Dustin Cohen, I believe —”

“Just a friend.”

Monroe seemed surprised at the interruption but continued on. “I meant to ask what he knows about your nightly condition?”

“Nothing.”

Monroe clasped his hands in his lap and leaned forward. “Perhaps I’m doing things in the wrong order. I’ve told you I’m here to help you, but provided nothing tactile. You said you work. Quit your job.”

Charlie laughed hollowly. “Two jobs, actually. I work at Wal-Mart, night stocking, and at UCLA, manning their tech helpline. Used to work at a cafe, but, you know, day hours.”

“Quit them,” he said again. “How much do you need? Five thousand?”

Charlie just stared. “What?”

“Seven thousand? Forgive me, I sometimes struggle with modern inflation rates.”

It slowly dawned on her what he was offering. “Like, a month?”

“Yes, to cover your expenses,” he said. “Rent, chiefly, and then recreational costs. Food for your animal companion. Do you want to go back to university?”

“I didn’t tell you about that,” said Charlie suspiciously.

Monroe raised his hands. “You clearly struggle with finances. You’re a young woman of the modern age. I’m sorry if I made an assumption—”

“I studied journalism,” she said shortly. “Left after my mother died.”

“Do you want to go back? There are evening and correspondence classes, as well. You don’t need to give up everything.”

Charlie picked at her nails and avoided his eye. Monroe sounded genuine, like the offer was something meant to make her happy. It would. As much as she wanted to never deal with this condition and hope it would fade away, that wouldn’t happen. That amount of money, freely offered, it didn’t feel real.

“Why?” she demanded. “Why would you just give it to me?”

The corners of his mouth ticked up in an expression no one would call a smile. “I promised you prosperity,” he said arrogantly. “You are in need of something I have in excess. Zari and Jack have their own arrangements, if you are worried about undue charity.”

“Okay,” she said finally. “Yes, I want to go back to school.”

Monroe nodded and sombered. “University classes are one thing — crowded, but impersonal. Human relations are another. The Beast kept you safe in your first nights, gave you the instincts to hunt and keep hidden from humans. One night, it will not simply offer suggestions but instead take over your mind. Sometimes for a few minutes, or an hour, or more. We call it a frenzy. When faced with fire or sunlight, it can keep you alive. When faced with humiliation or rage or jealousy, it will kill the objects of those feelings and think it’s doing you a favour. Imagine an unpleasant customer, and then turning aisle three into a bloodbath.”

Charlie shook her head, but Monroe persisted.

“I’ve seen it happen. Going home for Christmas and someone gives you grief about not being around in the daytime. The Beast feels your fear at being exposed, but doesn’t know how else to deal with it. You come to your senses—”

“Stop,” she snapped. “I’m not going to kill anyone.”

“I’m sorry, my dear, but you already have,” he said quietly. “Your first vessel. He was how we found you.”

Charlie forced herself to breathe, but the air did nothing to help alleviate the shame. She didn’t even remember what he looked like or what his name was. Only the taste of his blood. It didn’t feel like her. But, of course, it had been.

“Limit your contact with humans,” he said again. “If you quit your jobs, I am more than willing to support you.” He quirked an eyebrow. “Do you want twenty thousand a month?”

Charlie sniffed with amusement. It felt like a magic wand being waved. Last month, a blank cheque would’ve solved all of her problems. She could’ve gone to university, hired Bella a babysitter, paid all those late bills. This month, money seemed the least of her problems.

She hated owing people.

“I guess I should thank you,” she said grudgingly to her knees.

“You could, but you don’t have to,” he said. He cleared his throat. “There is also the matter of defense. So long as hunters are around and kindred are as we are, it would be prudent to learn the basics of self-defense. Miss Hawthorne would be happy to teach you how to shoot or fight.”

Charlie shrugged. “Fine.”

“Perhaps shooting me a dozen more times will help you work out your feelings.”

Charlie felt a flicker of a smile.

“Just, keep an open mind,” he said. “We aren’t a part of human society. Speaking of, I had a plan tonight to deal with local branch of the Society.”

Charlie had a horrible sinking feeling. “Do I want to know?” she asked.

“Are you in the mood for a history lesson?” he said. When she didn’t answer, he sighed. “I’ll keep it brief. The last time humanity knew about us was the Spanish Inquisition. The Catholic Church put together a secret order of warriors, charged with destroying us. We went to ground, humanity forgot, and now the Society of Saint Leopold is a persistent pain in our sides. Fanatical, underfunded, not believed by the Vatican anymore, the Society aren’t the threat they once were, but they’ve caught my scent due to another hunter. I have a contact who I will have deal with the local chapter.”

“Deal with them how?” she asked.

Monroe rubbed his hands together. “They will kill us if we don’t disable them. Choices are limited. I don’t enjoy killing and it would only draw more attention. My contact will disband the chapter and… remove their threat. They’ll live. Don’t worry.”

Charlie found herself worried. “How?”

“Remember the black trunk I paid Orsay with? I told you not to look in there. Don’t ask questions whose answers you aren’t ready for.”

Charlie uncurled herself and faced Monroe. “I think I want to know.”

He nodded. “I’ll respect your wishes. My contact will likely ghoul or blood bond them — emotionally enslaving them to himself — before rebuilding their psyches into something that amuses him.”

Charlie wished she hadn’t asked. “That’s terrible.”

Monroe nodded again. “I agree, but I don’t trust anyone else to be able to clear the chapter.”

Charlie wiggled her fingers by her temple. “Is that, like, a power we can do?”

Monroe’s smile became bitter. “One  _ we _ can do, yes, but not one my contact can. Dominate is the power over minds — matters of obedience, willpower, and memory. Presence deals with emotions, inflaming and calming.” He gestured to himself. “Ventrue have both. Malkavians have access to Dominate.”

“Dominate,” she repeated. The word lay heavy on her tongue.

“I can teach you,” he offered. “Disciplines native to your clan are quite simple to pick up.”

“Mind control.” It wasn’t so much a question as an exclamation of horror. Suddenly, having vampire superpowers didn’t seem all that exciting. A radio that picked up psychic visions and voices and the power to turn people into mindless drones.

“Useful,” he said. “It can erase minutes of a person’s memory. Say, a mortal witnessing a kindred event.”

“Sounds evil,” she replied. “I’m okay, thanks.”

He inclined his head. “To each their own. But I didn’t come here to instruct you in Dominate. I came to offer you a night out.”

“I’m not interested in dealing with that… contact,” she said. Even saying it, she felt like she was in some deranged spy movie.

“Neither am I,” he said with a sigh, “but needs must. He’ll be at my music venue, along with likely other kindred. I thought it might be a nice night out for you,” he added with a fond smile, “a chance to relax, meet the coterie and other locals in a more social setting. Gain a different perspective.”

Charlie played with the hem of her shirt. More than anything, she wanted to stay home with Bella. There was ice cream to eat, homework to finish, and a dog to walk. The Beast wasn’t overly thrilled about meeting predators —  _ other predators, competition _ — but what if they weren’t like that? What if the other vampires were just normal people with a condition? What if they were maybe nice? She waited impatiently for something to come through the static, some vision or sign, but there was nothing.

Charlie nodded.

“Excellent,” Monroe said briskly. “I’ll wait in the car while you ready yourself. No need for cocktail dresses, but something more than sweats, please.” He left cheerfully.

Briefly, she considered the cheap clothes she had street walked in to hunt. Seeing them in her closet made her flinch. Legally, she couldn’t even drink yet. She snorted at the idea of having a “cocktail dress”.

“Did he leave?” a voice stage whispered from across the hall. Bella peered around the edge of the door.

“Were you listening?” asked Charlie.

Bella followed her into her room as she changed. “Not really,” she said. “Couldn’t hear much. He’s gonna give you a raise?”

“Yeah,” said Charlie. She picked a pair of rumbled jeans off the floor. “I’ll be able to quit those other jobs and just work for him. Much better.”

Bella missed the sarcasm. “Does that mean you’ll be home more?”

Charlie turned her back as she took off her shirt and put on a bra. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I hope so. But, he’ll make sure we can keep the house, only if he thinks I live alone.”

“Will you be home tomorrow?” asked Bella eagerly.

“I don’t know.” Charlie reached for her Spartan makeup collection and put on a simple face on reflex.

“What do you do for him?” asked Bella.

That was a damned good question.

“I work in his music venue,” she invented. She supposed it was better than a vampire owning a spooky castle in eastern Europe and wearing a cape.

“What’s a music venue?”

“It’s like a bar where people go to dance to loud music.”

“What’s a bar?”

“Bars are like restaurants where you drink grown-up drinks.”

Bella’s mouth fell open. “ _ I _ wanna go. Please!”

Charlie smiled in spite of herself. “Only when you’re twenty-one.”

“What about when I’m a teenager?” begged Bella. “Thirteen is  _ much _ more grown-up than seven.”

Charlie laughed. “You’re right. You can ask again when you’re thirteen, how about that?”

“You never let me have any fun.” Bella crossed her arms and pouted.

Charlie kissed the top of Bella’s head. “Okay. Finish your dinner. Do your homework. Be good. I love you.” She pulled on a denim jacket.

“Love you, too, I will,” said Bella, dejected.

Charlie turned away from the sad little face and left the house quickly, locking it behind her. The same black SUV waited for her. The leather had a stiff, new feeling to it and the dashboard was spotless and glossy. Charlie slammed the door to the passenger side. 

“Have I or my car do something to offend you?” asked Monroe mildly. He pulled out of her driveway and headed onto the freeway.

Charlie shrugged.

“If I have, please, tell me. We can sort things out.”

Charlie ran a finger over the stitching. “Why are all your windows basically impossible to see out of?” She squinted. Even the windshield was only marginally brighter.

“Sun will burn us,” he said. “I’d rather have to Dominate a police officer into looking the other way than have to flee suddenly and be trapped without means to do so. While we’re on the topic,” he added, “garlic is useless, stakes will paralyze us, and only fire, sunlight, and decapitations will kill us. Bullets are little more than a painful inconvenience, aside from shotguns aimed to the head—”

“Yeah, I’m good on that stuff,” she said wearily. She was about to say something else, but a voice echoed from the backseat. She whipped around, expecting to see someone in the footwell, but there was no one. Maybe the trunk?

“There’s no one there,” he said. Concern marked his voice. “Did you see something?”

Cautiously, Charlie settled down. “Heard something,” she admitted. “Couldn’t catch what he said, though.” She stuffed her hands in the pockets of her jean jacket and sunk lower in the seat.

The lights of the freeway alternated between stark blackness and a dim grey glow.

“You shouldn’t take what Orsay said to heart,” he said softly. “Sometimes, what you see and hear might be prophetic, but most of the time it won’t be.”

“I’m just crazy,” she muttered.

“You have an affliction,” he said. “The Professor would explain it better than me. If you’re interested, I could set you—”

“Not interested.”

The car edged off the freeway and into a bustling downtown area. Sunset Junction, where Santa Monica met Sunset Boulevard. The nexus of night life made her shrink. Customers sat at sidewalk tables by restaurants . Surreal sunbleached murals covered the side of buildings. One building was entirely blue, covered in an abstract grey mural — roses and swords and lines. A line of people came out the front door — an alternative crowd, full of jeans and patched jackets, trying to look exciting or cool or intimidating, and most of them succeeding. 

Monroe pulled into a reserved parking space in the back — the holy grail of wealth and privilege in LA. 

“Oh god,” she whispered as the people at the line started to notice them. A dozen cell phones aimed in their direction, more than one camera. Charlie let a breath whistle through her teeth.

“It’ll be fine,” he said. “There will be no safer place for you in LA than in Blue Moon.”

“I’m more worried about them than the vampires. What happened to ‘don’t tell anyone’?” she demanded. A couple of people in line broke away from the line and approached, phones in hand.

“The Anarchs don’t forbid mortal involvement and, frankly, a little bit of local fame is hardly the worst—”

Charlie turned to face him as he suddenly cut off. He was looking at her again like that — fondly, like she was a kindergartener off to her first day of school.

“What?” she snapped.

Monroe pulled down the sun visor on her side and flipped open the mirror.

Charlie gasped.

The mirror reflected the back of her seat, like she wasn’t there. She jerked backwards but her reflection didn’t change.

“We have reflections,” Charlie insisted. “I did this morning — evening, whatever.”

“You didn’t mean to do that,” said Monroe. “The Blood has ways of trying to help. Young Brujah punch harder than they intend. Young Toreador—”

“How do I turn it off?” She raised a hand but the reflection didn’t obey. Invisible. This was something she could get behind. “Actually, I’m gonna keep it.”

Monroe eyed the cell phones and nodded. “Try not to run into anyone. If you do, you’ll become visible again. Just, follow me. Tug on my jacket to let me know you’re still there.”

Charlie nodded, before she realised he couldn’t see her. “Got it.”

Hunger began its slow, gentle itch in her gut. She cringed at it. She needed to go out again. And be more careful about it. Even if they were scumbags, she didn’t feel good about it. Monroe had mentioned animal blood. Maybe that was worth looking into.

As he caught sight of the people waiting in line, a bizarre transformation crashed over his face. The quiet eerie look left him and he grinned and his shoulders fell, looking his physical age and Charlie started as she realised he couldn’t have been thirty when he was turned.

Monroe opened the door and at once the fans mobbed him. A dozen voices and questions. Selfies. Asking about bands and artists. She was invisible in more ways than one.

With all their attention on him, she slipped out of the car and shut the door quietly. A strange tingly sensation passed over her. Freedom. She could leave, right now, and Monroe wouldn’t know. He couldn’t stop her. She could go anywhere, do anything. She could walk right into Disneyland and no one would know. 

Ostentatiously, Monroe had stopped in the middle of the parking lot, entertaining the fans. He bore absolutely no resemblance to the man she had met. “We got an  _ awesome  _ new artist, the Bad Bats,” he said. “Off the charts talented dudes. If you’ve been here before, you’re bound to have heard of them. Fuck, if you live in LA, you’ll have heard them when they got on stage. Their new album…” As he went on, Monroe clicked his fingers behind him. Once. Twice.

Charlie let him do it a third time before jerking on his jacket.

“I’m sorry, guys,” he said, “but I’ve got work to do tonight. Great meeting with you.”

Another round of photos and questions passed before he was able to side-step them and enter the club. A yellow moon hung over the entrance with the words  _ Blue Moon  _ in a cursive script.

The sound echoed in her chest and felt like a living thing in the air. She stumbled close behind Monroe, dazed. Some alternative band played against the back wall to a small sunken pit of two hundred or so bodies pressed tight. A bar and boothes flowed around the pit. Steel-rimmed mirrors hung on every wall, casting beams of white light like lightning across the pit and bar.

The pit wasn’t rowdy, not this early in the evening, but the mood was electric. The Beast lifted a curious head and Charlie sniffed before she realised what she was doing. Musk, perfume, cologne, sweat, alcohol. Humans. Her fangs tingled. No one would ever know. 

Monroe stepped into an elevator. He held it open until she tugged on his jacket again. The doors cut off the sharpness of the scent and sound.

“You have free reign,” he said. “As far as the city is concerned, this is the heart of my coterie’s domain. This is your place as much as mine.” There was one higher floor, but Monroe pressed an unmarked red button three times. The elevator shifted down. “Upstairs is my personal offices, as well as spare quarters for our kind — you, too, if you want it. A recording studio is on the main floor, Sound of Blue Records, and a back exit into the alley past the kitchens.”

The elevator kept going down.

“And, downstairs?” she asked.

“Kindred-only,” he said. 

The doors opened. Rather than the sensory assault of the club upstairs, it was weirdly quiet. The same music from upstairs played from all corners. Music posters splattered the bare brick walls. Viney plants sprawled out of baskets hanging from the ceiling. Purposefully mismatched furniture flanked the corners and tables sat far enough apart to give the illusion of privacy. A bar of rough wood spread the length of the opposite wall, tended by a chunky Asian woman. She shook a cocktail and poured the dreadfully red mixture into a glass for the man at the bar. Conversation had stalled when the elevator opened, but it picked up again among the few patrons. Vampires. No one wore any capes. In fact, they looked a lot like the humans upstairs, but a bit grey. No one looked at her.

“Since this is the property of the coterie,” said Monroe, “technically it’s not unallowed for you to use Obfuscate, but it is considered rude in mixed company.”

Charlie loudly whispered, “I don’t know how to turn it off.”

“You can hit me, if you like. Blatant actions tend to break it.”

Charlie waved a hand in front of his face. His eyes didn’t track it. Shrugging, emboldened by the invisibility, she drew her fist back and threw it at his face.

She was able to pinpoint the exact moment she became visible. His eyes widened and he caught her wrist, moving with her momentum. She stumbled over him as he analyzed her clenched fist.

“At the very least, you have to let me show you how to throw a punch,” he said, frowning. He rearranged her fingers. “You’ll hurt yourself like this.”

Charlie took her hand back. “I’ll pass.”

Zari splayed across one of the couches with her fingers in a human man’s hair. She pulled back her legs as she spotted them. A fanged smile greeted them. “You just missed Ashley,” she said. “He went upstairs to find Delilah.”

“Unfortunate,” he said.

Monroe sat next to Zari and put an arm around her shoulders, while Charlie pulled a chair from a nearby table and straddled it. Zari had shed the stylish sweater and instead wore a bright yellow sundress, which contrasted with her dark skin, and had a heavy black laptop next to her. Lustrous and coily black hair spread over her shoulders. Next to them, Charlie felt like a gremlin.

Zari continued to run her fingers through the man’s hair. Her human friend, on the other hand, wore plain black and his head flopped to the side. His eyelids fluttered a little.

“Is he alright?” asked Charlie.

Zari gave his face a gentle tap. He smiled lazily and leaned into the touch. “Oh, he’s fine,” she said. “I just drank. The Kiss hits humans like heroin — worse, if you know how.”

Charlie swallowed her lips, disturbed. “Sounds great.”

Zari’s eyes swept over Charlie. “I know we got off on the wrong foot,” she said, “and I am sorry for that, but we really should go shopping with Monroe’s credit cards one night. Get you something nicer.”

Charlie felt her lips smile in spite of her. Despite the casual use of the man, Zari’s offer seemed genuine and friendly. “Thanks, I’d like that. Are all vampires rich?”

“When you put ten dollars in a bank account and come back in a hundred years, things do tend to add up,” he said flippantly. 

“Was that Obfuscate I saw back there?” asked Zari. Her eyes narrowed lightly.

“I turned invisible when his fans showed up,” said Charlie, feeling a little proud of it. “Obfuscate.” The word felt a little hidden, secret, dangerous, but private. Like a kiss. Much better than Dominate and Auspex.

“Malkavian?” asked Zari. “I can deal with Malk. Please don’t tell me you’re a Rubio’s kid. I don’t think I can handle  _ another  _ Setite.”

Charlie’s excitement from her newfound abilities withered a little. “Malkavian.”

Zari nodded. “Good to know. We’ll stop any shit any wiseasses want to give you.”

“I don’t know what you have against Orsay and Rubio,” said Monroe, offended. “Perhaps Orsay doesn’t have the nicest bedside manner—”

“Please,” scoffed Zari. “You only like them because they’re useful.”

“Making a Tzimisce or Setite your enemy is a very bad idea.”

“Making any enemy is a bad idea. Know how you don’t make enemies? Don’t try to make friends.”

Charlie raised her hand. “Am I going to get some Cliff Notes at any point? Like, just a list of clans and who’s who would be cool.”

“Of course,” said Zari, sighing. “Thirteen main clans—”

“ _ Thirteen? _ ”

“—but not all of them are in LA. We have plenty of Brujah and Toreador.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “More Malkavians and Nosferatu than we probably should have. Gangrel skulk around. A couple Ventrue, just the one Set. The rest of the independent clans aren’t around here.”

“You see,” said Monroe, “some clans are deeply ingrained into the sects. The Camarilla is primarily built and maintained by Ventrue and, though we would loathe to admit it, Tremere. The Sabbat was formed by Lasombra and Tzimisce, Orsay’s clan. Not many leave.” He frowned. “What are you doing?”

Charlie had taken out a spiral notebook and a pen from her bottomless jean pockets. “Taking notes,” she said bitterly. “I’m never going to remember all this. How do you spell ‘Tzimisce’?”

Monroe looked as though he would argue but his eyes moved behind Charlie. “Wonderful,” he muttered. 

“My favourite autarkis,” said a sly high voice. It sounded like the ringing of bells and Charlie felt compelled to turn to see who said it. Her eyes were drawn to him like a magnet. 

From the elevator came two more vampires. While Monroe was a little too pale and Zari’s dark skin ashen, this one was a silvery marble. His skin seemed to glow, his hair the same silver tone. He wore a pair of designer sunglasses, leather pants, and a gold baroque blazer with nothing under it. It gave him the appearance of being a walking Statue of David. The vampire that followed him was slight, a woman with tumbles of cherry red hair, and a figure squeezed into a green sequin dress. Neither of them appeared to fit in either upstairs or downstairs in Blue Moon.

“I would call you my favourite Toreador, but I dare not in front of dear Zari,” said Monroe coolly.

Charlie couldn’t take her eyes off the stranger. She started to recognise it as a power, some unnatural vampire power. It had to be. He was strange, ethereal, but she couldn’t stop staring. Her mind emptied of original thought, compelled by some greater force, and filled with a sigh of static.

The stranger sat on Monroe’s other side and seemed to realise Charlie’s gaze. “This must be everyone’s favourite new Malkavian,” he said. He smiled and she felt herself smile back. He extended a hand. “Ashley Swan, and this is my childe, Delilah.”

“Charlotte Bradley,” she said breathlessly. She couldn’t even look up from him to see the woman. She didn’t need to breath, but struggled to draw enough breath to speak. His touch sent an electric jolt through her and she could barely let go. “Call me Charlie.”

From the depths of the static, a voice hissed. Hissed, like a snake, full of venom and loathing.  _ The angel of demons speaks with thin lips. _

Briefly, Charlie felt the strength of Ashley’s power wither before her own fear — her fear, or the fear of the voice? Something, somewhere was afraid. Deathly afraid. Something was wrong. She turned, knowing she wouldn’t find the source of the voice, but unable to stop herself. There was only Delilah, the pretty redhead, who stared at her with doe-like eyes.

“Now, play nice,” said Monroe mildly, but there was a threat in his voice. “How did you find out her clan?”

“I have my ways.” At his voice, Charlie felt the power strengthen again. Ashley took off his sunglasses. His features were delicate, feminine, and he wore dark lipstick. His lips weren’t thin at all. His eyes seemed to hypnotize her. Large, long-lashed. Violet. He leaned forward and she mirrored him. The fear abated and was replaced by a flirtatious glee. Her heart lightened and she laughed as he reached out to brush a limp curl from her face.

“Oh, you could be fun, couldn’t you?” he said quietly with a grin. “So… tepid and uninteresting. Dull. Double denim. With a couple of months, I could make you something extraordinary.”

Charlie couldn’t stop smiling, even as he insulted her. She didn’t like men. She was a lesbian. But, suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of the night talking to Ashley, dancing with him, just being in his presence. It felt so magical. 

“I could be,” she said.

“ _ Ash _ .”

The inner glow that emanated from Ashley shut off and he glared at Monroe. “Spoil sport.”

Charlie sat back, blinking hard. He still had his strange ethereal appearance, but there was a distinctly unattractive veneer of spoiled rich boy. Angel of demons. Thin lips. Were demons real?

“If you get tired of the stick up Monroe’s ass, my door is open,” he said with a lazy smile.

“I think I’m okay,” said Charlie coldly. 

“Are you sure? I could make that dead heart flutter again.”

The smallest echoes of what she had felt before pulled at her, before releasing her.

“Are you a vampire?” she blurted. “I mean, you don’t seem like any vampires I’ve seen so far.”

Ashley smiled smugly. “Baby, there ain’t never been anything like me.”

“He’s a Toreador,” said Monroe, irritated, “with too much Presence — and ego. Ashley, I ask that if you wouldn’t do it to me, you wouldn’t do it to my coterie.”

“Is that a challenge?” he asked. At Monroe’s stony expression, he sighed dramatically. “Very well. First, your share.” He pulled an envelope from inside his blazer. “Appreciate it. Garcia — well, not him specifically, but El Hermandad — has been making my job substantially harder of late. Anarchs pride themselves on the free market, until their high morals are inconvenient.”

Monroe flicked through it briefly. Charlie could see the thick layers of green. “I might just end up giving this back to you,” he said. “I have a tip for you.”

Ashley spotted Charlie’s look of surprise. “ _ Someone _ has to run drugs through this place.”

“Drugs?” she repeated. She turned to Monroe and Zari. “You’re selling  _ drugs  _ here?”

Ashley’s eyes glinted. “Oh, I do like you.”

Monroe didn’t have the decency to look ashamed. “Yes,” he said. “Someone will if not Ashley. He keeps out the baron’s mortal gangs and other hustlers who bring in things I  _ don’t _ want—”

“What don’t you want?” Charlie demanded. “What’s the line?”

“Everything running in their system will come out in the blood,” said Monroe defensively. “The last thing I need is a Brujah on PCP smashing through brick walls.”

“Let me take you hunting, little bat,” said Ashley. “Just an hour or two, down Sunset. I promise, you’ll have the time of your life.”

“How about never?” snapped Charlie. Blood rushed to her face. “This isn’t my scene — the drugs and music and dancing—” Her teeth clacked together and she realised her fangs had slipped out. She groaned and tried to will them back in.

“What a pity some lunatic got to her first,” said Ashley blithely.

The words bit and Charlie felt her fangs slink out further. Every word he said was a violation, digging into her emotions and stealing them from her. The Beast met her embarrassment with blood, anger, righteous fury. She held it back. Bad idea. She couldn’t just attack someone. What was she doing?

“You don’t get to talk to her like that,” snapped Zari. “She’s one of ours now. Tinker with Presence if you want to be crass, but a fledgling doesn’t need your bullying.”

Ashley raised a pale eyebrow. “Oh? Well, if my childe is giving me lectures on manners I suppose I better listen. Regardless, Monroe, you have something for me?” He put an overly friendly arm around Monroe’s shoulders and toyed with his hair. “Are you going to give me some of that sweet Ventrue blood?”

Charlie felt the terrible splashback from whatever power Ashley was using on Monroe. Apparently, though, he wasn’t affected.

“You know where the Society is in LA?” asked Monroe dryly. “And don’t touch me.”

Ashley frowned and his power faltered, surprised. “Yes, of course. Gabriel’s mission.”

“They hit me. You would be doing me a favour if you took care of them. And you know Garcia would reward you, too, if you made it clean.”

Ashley slunk back, disappointed. “Do I  _ look _ like I can go toe-to-toe with Catholic hunters? These claws are purely decorative.”

“It’s irreverent what you look like,” said Monroe frostily. “I know what you’re capable of, especially with the correct motivation.”

Ashley mimicked his haughty tones. “Oh, well, do enlighten me, my lord autarkis? How do you intend to motivate me?”

“Money.”

“I have plenty of it.”

“Ghouls. Blood.”

“I take what I want when I want.”

Monroe considered him carefully. “I will owe you a major boon.”

Whatever Ashley had expected, it wasn’t that. He lost his flippant demeanor like a light switch turning off. His eyes narrowed as he considered it. “Major,” he repeated. “The distinction between major and minor, of course, being you will spill blood for me, including your own.”

“Of course,” he asserted. “I’ll even loan you some of my security men for the raid. Take out the Society, have them defect so the Vatican doesn’t come breathing down our necks, and have fun.” He smirked. “Consider it additional motivation for your efforts.”

The slow smile that spread across Ashley’s face was genuinely terrifying. “Absolutely. Oh, whatever I can do for my fine friend.”

They shook on it.

Monroe broke eye contact and gestured to Zari’s semi-conscious human. “He was the last of the hit squad sent after us.”

Ashley looked over him with interest. “Truly, childe? You’ve tamed a Catholic hunter?”

Zari repressed a smile but only ended up smirking. “He’s very tasty, I promise. A gift, if you’re interested.”

“See?” Ashley turned to Monroe, ignoring his order to not touch him. “ _ Gifts _ . I like gifts. Sweet Zari, I am always interested.”

Zari gave the man a shove and he landed in a limp tangle of limbs, moaning softly. Charlie could only stare as Ashley inclined for Delilah to pick him up.

Monroe punched the keys on his phone. “I’ll lease you four men for the Society. I want four back.”

Ashley stood and put his sunglasses back on. “I can’t promise they’ll be the same four. Later, suckers.” He dropped a slithering hand onto Charlie’s shoulder as he passed, and she recoiled at the squeeze. The elevator took him and his childe upstairs.

“I would say he’s not really that bad, but I would be lying,” said Monroe blandly. “He is useful, though.”

“He’s… monstrous.” Charlie couldn’t find a strong enough word for him.

Zari scoffed. “Pot and kettle, honey. Ashley might be eccentric and all about that vamplife, but he’s as good as they come.”

“Did he turn you?” asked Charlie hesitatingly.

“No,” said Zari, “but he took me in when my sire was killed. Much like we’re doing now for you. Adoption. Fostering.”

Charlie wrung her hands, rocking slightly against the chair. She could almost still smell the human man she had been playing with so cruelly. Hot blood — the hunger. She shut her eyes to it.

“It’s not quite so tasty as from the veins,” said Monroe warily, “but I could get you a drink. I promise you, I don’t keep blood dolls like the baron.”

Charlie shook her head of it. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine. I’m just—”

“I’ll get you something.” He stood and retreated to the bar.

“What are you so worried about?” asked Zari, bewildered. “You’ve done it before. Why not just hunt, upstairs?”

“I thought they were all alive,” said Charlie quietly. “I don’t want to hurt them.”

“Believe me, they love it. Better than sex, than any drug. They’ll thank you for it.”

“What’s crackalackin?” 

Charlie turned and was relieved to see Jack pull up a chair next to her. He hadn’t changed out of his cracked leather jacket and jeans, though he did comb his mullet. She felt a little less troll-like next to him.

“Fledgling here doesn’t want to drink from the vein,” said Zari.

Jack shrugged. “Her choice. What are you gonna do, force her?”

“She’s a  _ vampire _ .”

“Vampires drink blood. Don’t need to be from veins — or humans.”

“We’re predators of humanity. It’s unnatural.”

“It’s a choice.”

“Quiet, you two,” said Monroe calmly.

Monroe returned and handed Charlie a glass. It was clearly blood, warm like cocoa, and with a thick pink froth. Her first impulse was disgust, but it was quickly overpowered by the scent.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Cherry cola,” said Jack.

Cautiously, Charlie took a sip. The foam clung to her lips and she cringed, but the taste mellowed over her tongue. It wasn’t as consuming as her hunts. Delicious, but resistable, and unmistakably blood — and  _ not _ cherry cola. It fuzzed the edge of her mind and relaxed her hunger.

“It’s okay,” she said noncommittally, drinking more.

Jack snickered. “It’s alright. We need to get you some drunk blood.”

“I’m not twenty-one yet,” she said before she could stop herself.

Even Monroe chuckled.

Jack’s smile grew more sincere. “I’m not one for those sort of blood games that they play up on Greystone, but a little friendly spar—”

“Not in Blue Moon,” said Monroe sternly. “Take it out in the parking lot if you can keep it in the Masquerade.”

Jack rolled his eyes and raised his fists. “Relax, captain, I don’t want to throw any cars at her. Just a little tumble. A little one-two.”

Zari reached for the laptop and opened it again. Her long dark nails clicked across the keys.

“I don’t think that’s my thing,” said Charlie. “I’m not much of a fighter.”

Jack nodded and put a hand on her shoulder. “That’s why we get you some drunk blood first. Trust me, there’s no bruises, no pain, it’ll be fun. All adrenaline.”

“Ashley could get you some blood  _ with _ adrenaline,” said Zari, not taking her eyes off the screen. “Maybe then you wouldn’t have to have slap fights with Damsel.”

“It’s not that I have to,” he explained, “it’s that I want to. Besides, Charlie needs some new undead hobbies. What did you used to do for fun?”

When he asked the question, every possible hobby vanished from her mind. “Uh.” She took a deep drink to stall. “Camping. Hiking. Surfing, I was a great surfer.”

“Boss,” said Jack enthusiastically. “There’re some coteries down the coast who leave their beach open to any of us. We could all go out to Long Beach. Monroe, could you score things with Mickey Mouse for us?” He patted her shoulder again. “Just wait until you see Disneyland after hours, it’s far out.”

Charlie laughed. It felt so ridiculous, the idea of endless time off work and a damn vacation. She almost asked if she could bring Bella, but choked it back. Her excitement dampened.

Monroe had cracked a smile, though. “Mickey Mouse is what most people call Louis Fortier,” he explained. “He’s the Baron of Anaheim and damn uptight, but, I could settle things for a night.”

“Zari, are you in?” asked Jack.

She glanced up from the laptop. “Dirty beach bums and Fortier, I think I’ll pass.”

“Whatcha working on?” Charlie peered around the side of the screen, but Zari proudly spun it to show her. It was some image editing software and looked like a magazine, with columns of articles and photos. Blue and black lines crosshatched along the margins.

“I’m working on the November edition of the  _ Fifth Estate _ ,” said Zari. She seemed to sit a little taller. “LA doesn’t get many new faces, so I’m making room for a feature piece.”

“On me?” Charlie blinked.

“You know,” said Monroe slyly, “Charlie used to study journalism.”

Charlie shrunk back from the mention, but Zari glowed. Her smile was breathtaking.

“Did you? How far did you get? Have you written for anything? Oh, Matt, move  _ over _ . Come on, girl, sit next to me. Did you work on any publications?”

The questions kept coming and Charlie struggled to answer one of them. Zari talked her through the zine, how her vision, Ashley’s ghouls, and Jack’s connections in the Downtown Barony had made it one of the most popular among the city’s licks.

“Licks, vamps, kindred — keep up.” She snapped her fingers impatiently as she showed off the regular monthly features — seeking pieces, cartoons from a Brujah in Beverly, event ads, and even a Q&A. This month, she had an article from Alice Zhao, Blue Moon’s bartender, on how to mix blood-tails at home. “And you,” said Zari eagerly. “You’ll be sticking around, so a featuring introduction will be hidden somewhere in there. Anything you want to say to LA’s licks?”

“Hi?” she suggested meekly. “I mean, is this sort of stuff really safe with hunters and… stuff?”

Zari barked a laugh, a single shrill note. “If you want to live in caves and abandoned castles, please, be my guest. I, however, am a product of the modern times.”

“This would all be illegal in a Camarilla domain,” said Monroe. “Which is why I’m not there.”

Charlie gestured to the venue upstairs. “Like, owning a business?”

“More the matter of being the public face of it,” he replied. “They work from the shadows and, to be fair, they have a point. I’m not the official owner but I run the label in the back. It’s granted me on the wrong side of tabloids more than once. Vessels mistaken for affairs,” he added.

Charlie smirked. “Girlfriends?”

“Cleaver-like bullshit,” said Zari determinedly. “Crossing lines over species like that is crazy.”

Monroe sighed, exasperated. “Not girlfriends. Only vessels.”

“Maybe for you,” argued Jack. “There’s nothing wrong with dinner and a movie. Cleavers endanger the Masquerade—”

Zari’s laptop shut with more force than necessary. “And what is it you think you are doing with all those girls?”

“Maybe making up for stealing blood to survive?” he offered. “Probably better than shaking them down in a nightclub bathroom like—”

Charlie sighed and raised her hand. “Sorry, teacher, sir, ma’am, anyone want to give me a Vampire Dictionary?”

Zari grunted and settled back down. “Cleavers are licks who think they can still play family — spouse, family, kids. You gotta leave it behind when you’re turned. It’ll just be a disaster.”

“You’re lucky,” said Monroe gravely. “You didn’t have anything like that. A casual friend here and there is of course acceptable, but anything closer becomes dangerous.”

“Very lucky,” she said. She did her best to not look away from Monroe’s steady gaze, not give anything away. Her mind raced. The Beast was right. It knew, instinctively. Bella was in danger. Bella wasn’t supposed to exist. They’d have her go in some foster home and have her think Charlie had died.

That was not going to happen. She would rather die first. She would find a way to make this work.

Fingers brushed through her hair, gliding down the back of her neck. Charlie jerked and reached behind. Her hand caught nothing. She turned, but there was only the rest of the basement. Zhao talked to a pair sat at the bar, others at tables. No one close enough to touch her.

“Are you alright?” asked Jack.

Charlie shook her head. “Yeah. Of course. Nothing.” 

Her eyes were drawn to the man at the bar. Boy, really. Could’ve still been in high school. Rough curved features, sandy blonde hair, a plasticy bomber jacket three sizes too big. He was familiar.

She ripped her eyes away and whispered to Jack, “You see him, right? I’m not losing it. That guy, at the bar? He’s real?”

Bewildered, Jack turned and nodded. “Yeah. I think his name’s Rhys. He’s part of the Professor’s Math Class. It’s a coterie that hangs around UCLA.”

Charlie turned to Monroe with wide eyes. “I’m right, right? I’m right. That’s him.”

She hadn’t realised he had been relaxed — or as relaxed as Monroe could be — until a dark wave seemed to pass over his face. “Listen to me,” he said, “the older we are, the more powerful we are. Even if your sire isn’t ancient, he probably has decades on you. And you can’t know that if you insult or attack him that he doesn’t have friends.”

“I have friends too, though, right?” asked Charlie. She stood. The chair scraped against the white tiles.

“Of course,” Zari called after her sarcastically. “I’ll hold him down.”

Jack grabbed for her arm but she ripped it away. 

“Hey,” she called. “Rhys.”

The boy turned around and skittered off the bar stool like he’d seen a ghost. Now that she could see his features, there was no mistake. They dredged up ugly memories of her last night: getting out of the tent to relieve herself, being hit from the side, tumbling down the hill. Sharp pain. Fangs. Blackness. And then the night, too clear in new eyes. She had fought him off and run for it.

He murdered her.

He looked so damn pitiful. Charlie had thought the big bad vampire monster who turned her would be… taller. Evil. Maybe with a cape or an accent. Not some pockfaced brat in need of a haircut. He was just a person. Somehow, that made it so much worse.

“Oh, uh, hey there, Charlie,” he said. His smile flickered. “What’s happening?”

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” she demanded. The other vampires silenced and she felt all eyes hang on her.

Rhys scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I thought it would be an improvement—”

“You fucking killed me,” Charlie yelled. “You turned me into some bloodsucking demon and you call this an improvement? I should repay the favour.” Her hands balled into fists.

Rhys raised his hands. Fear inched through him and Charlie felt her Beast respond with a snarl. “Listen, girl, you were perfect. Remember? Intro to Psyche? I sat behind you. Have you even seen your aura? And all that strife and hardship—”

“I was doing damn fine as a human.”

“And you will do perfect as a Malk,” he insisted. “Come on. Give it a few decades, you’ll understand.”

“Understand  _ this _ ,” said Charlie, drawing her first back but an arm caught her. Jack. 

“Why did you leave her?” asked Jack. She shrugged him off, hard. “Even Skelter hung around me for a few weeks.”

Rhys didn’t take his eyes off Charlie. “Prof, dude. He said I did you wrong and should let you go. He doesn’t know everything, though. He didn’t hear what the Cobweb said about you.”

“I don’t care if God Himself came down and told you to turn me,” shouted Charlie. “You ruined my life. Fuck you and  _ fuck _ the Professor.”

She took a swing at him. This time Jack didn’t catch her. It was clumsy and Rhys dodged out of the way, hissing. His friend, another man, stood from the bar.

“Rhys, I think we should get outta here before we piss off the Ventrue,” he hissed.

“She said—” Rhys whined.

“I heard. This ain’t the place.” He grabbed a hold of Rhys by the shoulders and steered him to the elevator. 

“Did that feel good?” demanded Jack as the elevator took them away. “Do you feel better now?”

“I would’ve felt better if it actually hit him,” she muttered.

“There’s no punch you can throw at a sire that’ll make you feel better,” said Jack darkly. “Trust me.” 

She fell into her chair and hung her head in her hands. It was all so incredibly unfair. It’s not like she had any apple pie, happy-go-lucky life but it was  _ hers _ . Had been. Truth be told, it hadn’t been hers since the accident. Her heart stung as a thought summoned itself from the depths of her soul. She wanted her parents. Mom would know what to do. If not, then at the very least, she would’ve hugged her and she would’ve believed it would be alright.

“You’re right to be angry,” said Monroe. His voice shattered her dream. It was bland and cold. Not actively cold, like the bite of ice or anger, but passively. Alien and drained of emotion, like a tile wall at a strange public restroom. “Embracing a human is always a cruel, selfish act and sires ought be held accountable.”

Zari snorted. “You want to drag some whimpering lunatic to Garcia?”

“If the Traditions of Accounting and Creation were enforced, there would be fewer Embraces,” he said irritably. “Sires don’t even need to be held accountable to a baron — just in the court of public opinion, but no one gives a damn.”

“Lets go out back,” said Charlie decisively. She shoved aside the self-pity and misery and picked herself back up. “You want to fight, Jack? Let’s go fight.”

Jack blinked. “Maybe we should just go topside, check out the music?”

“That’s an excellent idea,” said Monroe. He stood and, reluctantly, Zari slammed shut her laptop and leapt to her feet.

“What’s playing?” asked Charlie skeptically.

Jack shrugged. “Don’t know. Doesn’t matter really when you’re in the pit.”

Monroe glowered at him. “They’re called Chopshop. They’ve been here before—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jack waved away Monroe. “So, we going upstairs?”

Charlie risked a half smile and followed them back upstairs. When the elevator doors opened, the music and lights crashed into her like a tidal wave. It wiped her mind clean of the ugly events downstairs. The Beast sniffed and absorbed the dozens — hundreds of human scents. The sensual assault wrapped her in a blanket of thoughtlessness. 

The band was white, dressed in all black, and shouted, growled, and thrashed their way through their set. Like a rally, the pit responded, waves of arms and hands piercing the blackness.

Monroe and Zari peeled off towards the bar. Charlie’s eyes felt compelled to follow them and she recognised the pull — like Ashley. Presence. The spell caught mortal eyes and a gaggle soon surrounded them. More than once, a camera pulled out to snap pictures. They basked in their fame, maestros, like too-perfect stars who didn’t exist outside a phone’s camera. Zari smiled bashfully and it took in every man and half the girls. Monroe drank in their praise for the music, the club, his work. Like Jack called him, he was the captain. This was his ship, even if the humans didn’t really get it.

“Come on, don’t stare,” said Jack. He pulled her across the floor, down into the pit.

“They’re like pigeons,” she exclaimed. “A flock swooping down to breadcrumbs.”

What did that mean? Where did it come from? It made sense, though.

Jack snorted and said something else, but the swell of the music carried away his words. Packed tight, a heat emanate from the pit in humid waves. Jack fought to get closer and Charlie followed his step until the crowd swallowed them both. There was no room left for worries or pain.

The Beast crowed in her heart, licking its chops.

_ A wolf among sheep, so close, so unaware. You could take them, any of them. Snap them like a glowstick and drink, drink, drink. _

Charlie smiled and felt the fangs inch towards her lower teeth. She could. She wouldn’t, but she could.


	5. The Way of Things

Hawthorne spun her chair sideways and reached for a steaming cup. Kindred had no need for food. It had been many decades since Monroe had thought about the scents or tastes of food with any desire. Rather, a narrow collection of scents lingered in his memories, as attached to Hawthorne. Imported Columbian coffee. Cheap mint tea that came in a box of hundreds. Pungent garlic and spices in oil. The almond and cherry of her shampoo, the cigarette smoke that clung to her. The fresh spritz of an orange. 

Hawthorne’s thumb bit through the rind and she peeled the fruit apart. “Are you still with me?”

Monroe gave the computer a disgraceful look. It was covered with line after line of small-type code in neon green. “If I said yes, would you believe me?”

“No,” she said flippantly, “but I knew I lost you ages ago.”

Monroe cracked a smile. Several hours had been wasted before the machine, as Hawthorne excitedly explained the prior months’ instruction in Computer Science. Every other word coming from her mouth sounded made-up.

“You’re basically Mitnick,” he said proudly.

She didn’t even balk at the association with the grotesque tech-savvy Nosferatu. “And you’re little more than a cranky Methusala who can’t find Internet Explorer.”

“At least mine was a compliment,” he said. He savoured the wounded pride. “Is this anything like what the Nosferatu do?”

Hawthorne slid an eye and smirk his way. “Do you mean ‘will it be useful to me to have you learn this’?”

“Yes,” he admitted.

“Not in the slightest,” she said. “But I prefer to keep myself relatively modern. I understand that’s more of a struggle for you.” She ate a segment of orange and slid back in front of the screen.

Hawthorne’s office was decidedly messier than the rest of the house. Stacks of foreign magazines she never threw away, half-ghouled plants, cookbooks, and fragments of old technology. Bookshelves spilled over onto the floor and her keyboard glowed under her fingers. A cigarette smoldered in a well-used ashtray. Monroe treasured the secrets she told him; she felt the itch of a ghoul’s unslakable hunger not unlike a kindred Beast and found human vices to mute the pain. She reached a delicate hand for the cigarette and filled the air with acrid smoke.

Monroe braced his hands against the chair as he watched her, content.

“Is that why you don’t want to be Embraced?” he asked quietly. “You don’t want to become out of time?”

She stopped typing. Her fingers curled into her palms.

“I just want to understand,” he whispered. “I know it’s a curse, but it couldn’t be any worse than this.”

“Than what?” she asked. The question seemed to steal her bravado. “Being a ghoul?”

Monroe loathed the word but he nodded. “I remember how it felt to labour under a blood bond. There’s a reason Anarchs rebelled against the elders. Free will—”

“No one has free will,” she said shortly, and resumed typing. Not once did she glance at him. “Between ghouls, the Beast, and the Danse, Cainites across the world have made sure of that.”

The Danse Macabre. Cainites. Such old words Monroe wondered if sires taught their neonates them nowadays. Danses tended to suck others up like black holes. The convoluted webs of intrigue and favours kindred played for petty vengeance and power. Monroe had done his best to stay independent, solely to isolate himself from Danses, but he was not immune to it. The Ace of Spades was a glaring example at the back of his mind. Someone had told her.

Hawthorne continued, “I’ve lived long enough to separate the bond from true emotions. You respect me and look after me.”

“What a low bar,” he said with disgust. “To speak plainly, Miss Hawthorne, I have too much respect for you to keep you a slave and there is no other way forward.”

Kindred blood had incredible powers. To mortals, it transformed them into ghouls, with exceptional lifespans and supernatural abilities. To other kindred, it was the most delicious drink of all and carried the blasphemy of diablerie, of consuming the soul. With every drink, a blood bond strengthened. Loyalty, slavering devotion, admiration, and love. A bond could only be broken with death, either the regent’s or the Embrace. To let a ghoul return to mortality, all that was necessary was to stop feeding them the vitae. They would lose their powers and their years would return.

Hawthorne had been ghouled in the eighteenth century. 

While her fingers halted, she didn’t take her eyes from the screen. “I would rather be a slave to a good master than a monster in my own right,” she said softly. “Despite what I have done, I am still human. I can feel the sun, speak with humans, share in their experiences of food, drugs, sex, and know that I am one of them. I would never think to command a Cainite, but I ask of you to please leave me as I am.” Her eyes were full of sorrow as she turned to face him.

Monroe reached for her hand. It was warm to the touch. Not as hot as a mortal, not as cold as another kindred. Her fingers squeezed his hand.

“I don’t want you to have to work around the blood,” he said. “I want to know you are here, not out of dependency but choice.”

Her breath hitched and he felt her fear. At the end of the day, he could choose to Embrace her and there was nothing she could do about it. The power sat uncomfortably in his hands.

“But I won’t do it if you don’t want it,” he said regretfully.

Her grip strengthened. “Swear it to me. Give me your word.”

Monroe gathered himself. He loathed to do it. Faced with death or worse, he would keep his word. One hundred fifty-eight years had his honour been tested and one hundred fifty-eight years had seen it strong. There was no turning back.

Whether the sentiment was his own, the Beast’s, or Fowler in the back of his mind, he knew she would’ve made a wonderful Ventrue. Dutiful, sharp, dauntless. What a shame. What an injustice.

“I give you my word, Miss Hawthorne, that I will not Embrace you.”

Satisfied, she released his hand and blinked a small smile. “Thank you, Mr Monroe.” She took her last segment of orange.

“What does it taste like?” he asked, curious.

“Sunshine,” she said dryly.

“What a marvelous frame of reference for a vampire.”

“Did you never eat an orange as a human?” she asked, confused. “If so, maybe I should buy a papaya next time.”

He shrugged. “I don’t think so.”

She inclined her head. “When was the last time you’ve been to a supermarket?”

Monroe opened his mouth and shut it again, frowning. “I… I couldn’t tell you. Why would I go?”

She clicked with the mouse and the monitor turned black. She stood. “Come on, then.”

It didn’t even occur to him that he should argue. He simply followed Hawthorne out to the garage; she slipped behind the wheel of the remaining SUV and they were off. Grocery shopping, in the late night. She was an expert driver. Monroe had long learned to love the smoothness of her control in the driver’s seat, the care she took. 

“Wouldn’t you rather go to Satellite or Blue Moon?” he asked. Silver Lake was full of music venues like his own, showcasing local bands as humans constantly reinvented music genres. “Consider it a night off, just to relax and have fun.”

Her face creaked into a smile. “The most fun I can think of is taking you to a grocery store.”

The car didn’t turn onto the freeway, but maneuvered through the local neighbourhood, pulling into a parking lot sooner than he anticipated. The white building glowed cheerfully, as though it wasn’t aware of the late hour and empty lot.

Hawthorne shut off the engine and glanced up, realising Monroe still stared at her. “What’s hip?”

“What do you want?” he asked sincerely.

She started. “What?”

“What would make you happy? If I can’t grant you freedom, happiness is the least I can give you.”

“I’ve never really thought about it,” she admitted. “Happiness is not exactly a priority of mine.”

“Would you like more time off, to play at being human?” he asked. “Do you need my leave to pursue a personal passion?”

“Human culture is my passion,” she said. Her lips flickered but her eyes were solemn. “Under your sire, it was my solace. I introduced you to music and film. I manage about half the daily workings of Sound of Blue Records  _ and _ you allow me to attend university to broaden my knowledge. What more could I ask for?”

“It doesn’t feel like enough,” he said. “You took bullets for me in the Glen.”

“It wasn’t the first time. Won’t be the last.”

It always came back down to the place of ghouls. It wasn’t her place to be happy. It wasn’t his place to make her happy. He gave her blood and let her live. In exchange, her life was his to do with as he saw fit. But there was the deep and unshakable fact that Hawthorne — whatever else she became and whatever she did for him — was a person. 

Kindred weren’t supposed to get close to their ghouls. It was unseemly.

“I know,” he said softly. “If there’s anything I can do for you, only say the word.”

“You can witness the marvel of the modern supermarket,” she said with a glint in her eye.

It was a modern marvel. Endless rows of brightly coloured boxes, cans, and bags. A produce department of rainbow pyramids and floral, delicate scents. Monroe had largely raised himself, in a San Francisco that was more a large town in the midst of the Gold Rush than any major city. Food had never been scarce but it hardly been varied. Though he couldn’t appreciate it with the same gusto Hawthorne clearly did, he enjoyed her enthusiasm.

“These are persimmons. They make a really lovely jam. Broccolini is like broccoli, but more interesting, and bitter. This is what I was talking about: a papaya. Smell it.” She raised the oblong greenish fruit.

“Fruity,” he decided.

Hawthorne put it in her basket and wandered to another display. “Oh, elephant garlic! Feel how heavy this is. We should get some.”

“Would Rubio like elephant garlic?” asked Monroe, weighing the oversized cloves in his hands. “He’s always trying to cook.”

“Ew.” She laughed. “Are you thinking about garlic snake beer? He’ll poison all the vampires in the city.”

“Perfect.” 

“Are you Matt Monroe?” asked a curious, cautious voice.

Monroe flushed his skin with vitae, wincing as the sudden exertion ached in his fangs. It took away his unnatural pallor and brought life back to his eyes. He was hardly dressed for meetings, casual, in jeans and a stiff t-shirt and jacket, but it would have to do. He grinned and turned to face the voice. It was a young couple, both wearing a lot of black and denim. Steel stuck out of both their faces in unusual places. Pretty par for the course.

“Yeah, I am,” he said. “You guys fans of Blue?”

He could almost hear Hawthorne’s exasperation as she continued to pick garlic.

The girl nodded and lost a bit of her shyness. He coaxed more of it away with a gentle Presence. She smiled back. “I didn’t realise for ages that my favourite bands were all on your label — and that it was so local. Pretty fucking cool.”

“Yeah, I have a club in Silver Lake,” he said. He dug for his wallet and flitted through his business cards until he found the one advertising Blue. “Either of you guys know any bands, send them my way. Always looking for talent.”

The guy took the card, but he didn’t smile. He passed it to his girl. “You’re gonna get the fuck out of my turf, before things get ugly for you, Monroe.” His lip curled back to reveal a fang.

Monroe let the blush of life fall with his smile. “What are two licks doing grocery shopping at at time like this?”

“This is the Syndicates’ domain,” he snarled.

Monroe took a hard look at the girl, straining his ears until he could make out heartbeats. Two. One, behind him, calm, meditative, strong. Hawthorne. And hers, fluttery, agitated. Human, or ghoul. Not a Syndicate. Monroe fancied his chances if it were only him and Hawthorne against them, but if it became several kindred, he could have a problem.

“Last I checked, Garcia let me hold Silver Lake,” he said coolly. 

“Check again, Camarilla.”

It wasn’t an insult, not to Monroe. But it was to the Syndicate, so it had to be answered.

Monroe concentrated his full power of Presence through his eyes. He won the stare down instantly and the Syndicate’s filled with an unnatural terror. Monroe took a step forward, hands in his pockets, and the Syndicate jerked backwards. Boxes of salad fell off the shelf behind him.

“Autarkis,” said Monroe mildly. “In the original Greek, it means  _ self-sufficient _ . Freestanding. Independent. Not Camarilla. Not Anarch.”

“Then you can’t be claiming any domain under no baron,” said the Syndicate. His voice held strong. His ability to speak at all was impressive.

Monroe lashed out. The girl ghoul gasped. His hand wrapped around the Syndicate’s windpipe. Cartilage crunched. Had he been human, he would’ve been dead.

“My business is my business. And I’m not interested in some little kiddy gang thinking they can fuck with me. Let me give you a piece of advice. You won’t win.”

Monroe released the Syndicate and he stumbled into the shelf. More boxes of salad tumbled down on top of them. Monroe didn’t look back as he stalked towards the cashier. Hawthorne followed close behind. He needed a few minutes to reconsider. There was a very good chance that the rest of the Syndicate — however big that may be — waited in the parking lot for him. Violence, especially while having a famous human mask, would be dangerous. He couldn’t let humans see him getting shot and just walking away.

Then again, leaving in one piece might become a greater priority than his mask, as much as he adored it.

The tired cashier rung up Hawthorne’s meager groceries agonizingly slowly. It mostly consisted of elephant garlic.

Monroe didn’t have a weapon. He didn’t often go anywhere unarmed, but this was his neighbourhood. His home. Five minutes from his door. He had been stupid. He doubted Hawthorne had one either. The trunk likely had a few items, but that was half a parking lot away.

Hawthorne handed over a credit card and took the groceries. They left quickly.

“Be ready to drop that if you need to,” he said.

“Actually, I was thinking of using it as a weapon,” she said dryly. “They’re so young they might not know garlic is harmless.”

Three figures materialized out of thin air. Obfuscate. One wore a huge hoodie, using the deep shadow to incompletely hide his molted grey skin — Nosferatu, cursed by monstrous visage. What were the others? Malkavians? Setites? Clanless Caitiff runts? Just gang members who all learned it from their Nos friend?

The others wore ragged dark clothing and unfriendly glares.

“The Syndicate, I presume?” said Monroe. “I was just leaving.”

“Yeah, run, blue-blooded bitch,” gurgled the Nosferatu. “Told you he wouldn’t put up a fight. The Lake’s ours.”

“Miss Hawthorne, please start the car,” said Monroe. The words didn’t bother him. The implication that they would continue to cause him grief did. Reluctantly, Hawthorne did as she was told and left him with the three. “Why don’t we come to an arrangement? What do  _ you _ want from Silver Lake and what can I do to help you? There’s enough to share.”

A grey gelatinous blob flew from beneath the black hood. Monroe jerked and it flew over his shoulder.

“That’s what we think of your Cammy filth.”

“I’m not Camarilla,” he said tirelessly. “Let’s think about this rationally. Ventrue have money —  _ I _ have money, that’s no secret.”

“Fucking cape!”

He raised his hands but did not move. “Think, for one moment. Think of all the money that’s poured into Los Angeles, into New York, into San Francisco. Working class and historical neighbourhoods gutted for big business and corporate interest. And it’s only going to get worse. Why do you think rent has not changed the last three years in Silver Lake? Especially when Echo Park and Los Feliz have increased seven percent?”

The excess of words gave the Syndicate pause as they took a moment to process things. They looked at each other.

“Crime,” he answered swiftly. “It’s crime. And strategic investment, on my part. Struggling small businesses, they get my partnership and stay local. Criminally-inclined vampires deal freely, feed and murder, undisturbed by police. It all feeds back into the local culture. It produces art, desperate humans who trust insiders and are easy to feed on, and a stable local economy.” 

The others looked to the Nosferatu, tense and uncertain. He was in charge.

“Without a heavy financial investor,” said Monroe, stepping closer, “human corporations will pile in, gentrify, displace the stable food source. The wealthier and more prosperous a population, the harder it is for us to live. Tell me.” He gestured to the other two. “Which ones are the messy feeders? Who abandons their ghouls? Richer residents means better neighbourhood watch and attentive police.” Monroe shook his head. “Frankly, if you get rid of me, rule Silver Lake, you’ll be priced out of your own domain in a matter of years. I’m here to live in peace, in harmony, with the rest of LA’s kindred. Tell me how we can live together and I will—”

“You really like the sound of your own voice, don’t you, cape?” The Nosferatu’s twisted mouth pulled into a smile. He didn’t argue. He didn’t disagree.

“I have been in enough cities to watch how domains go downhill,” he said softly. “Let me maintain it and—”

A fist lashed out, faster than he could see. It connected with his cheek and he felt bones shatter. Teeth turned to shrapnel in his mouth. He flew with the strength of it — five, ten, fifteen feet backwards until he landed and skidded across the pavement. Bits of his shirt and skin marked his path. The pain was agony, but it was only pain. 

Monroe rolled over and spat out the teeth. The Syndicates laughed. One cocked a shotgun. Brujah. Only they had both powers of Celerity and Potence, speed and strength. Before he realised what he had done, he called on the blood to heal his face. As the bones creaked back together, his Beast awoke. Enraged.

_ How dare they lay a hand on you? Low Clan gutter trash. Should learn their place. Where they belong. Kill them. One of them. Make the others watch. Teach them. Make them suffer. _

Monroe was not a beast, though. A stampede of boots on ground. Against every instinct he had, he retreated to a dark corner in his mind and shut his eyes. He allowed the Ventrue powers of Fortitude to quiet. Ribs broke under boots, piercing long silent organs. A hand ripped his head back with enough force to break the neck and slam his face against the concrete. The concrete cracked. 

This was how Anarchs communicated. Their game. Their Danse. They couldn’t just shake on business like civilized kindred. No one could seen to be weak. They had to take it, by force.

He let himself lie limp in their grasp. It was only pain. Words were only words.

Fowler snarled in the darkness of his mind, deathly calm as he normally had been when he enacted violence. The Beast spoke with his voice.

_ This is what has become of you? I should’ve reclaimed your blood when I had a chance. Yet the powers that be have let you galavant with my blood, disgrace the clan, and abandon the Camarilla. Filth. Pathetic, cowardly filth. You allow Brujah and Nosferatu to debase you? How dare you claim lineage to Ventru the King. _

All the worldly abuses Anarchs could inflict paled next to the early years of a Ventrue under his sire. Monroe reigned in Fowler. At least he still had his fangs and all his fingers. 

He waited, patiently. He gathered control over himself, his impulses, and waited for the moment. He would take a beating. It wasn’t his first in LA and it wouldn’t be his last. 

Then, slimy claws of the Nosferatu dug into his head and yanked his neck back. The cold breath, hampered by fangs, flooded his ear. “Let’s see if your blood tastes blue, motherfucker.”

He would not be fed upon.

Monroe moved. Every motion was agony, let alone at the speed he attempted. He twisted from the grip and lost a handful of hair. The Blood propelled him from lying beneath them to on his feet a dozen yards away. He healed enough of his jaw to let him speak.

“This doesn’t need to end like this,” he warned. “We can come to a peaceful conclusion, here. Silver Lake is my home—”

The Brujah sneered and moved in a blink but Monroe expected it.

He struck with his mind, wrapping coil after coil around the Brujah’s will. “ _ Put that gun in your mouth and pull the trigger. _ ” Monroe pulled with all his strength and felt the Brujah suffocate in his grasp. The force Monroe exerted made his vision swim and his limbs wither to numbness. He couldn’t show weakness. Through force of will alone, he remained standing.

The Brujah obeyed instantly. Rather than hit him again, he stopped moving, passed the shotgun to his dominate hand, slipped the double-barrel into his mouth, and pulled the trigger. The explosion of vitae, skull, and gore was delightful. The body collapsed and rapidly fell to the Final Death as all the stolen years of a kindred’s life caught up to the corpse, fast turning it into a skeleton.

Before the Nos and the other could react, Monroe lunged for the shotgun. The fear in their eyes was honey on blood to the Beast.

“As I was saying,” he said calmly, “Silver Lake is my home and I am prepared to defend it. Leave, with your lives and don’t come back or—”

“Fucking bastard,” grunted the Nos. He vanished from sight.

Monroe struggled to extend his senses, like turning the key in the ignition a dozen times before it took. Auspex wasn’t native to Ventrue blood. But, he felt his eyesight pierce the mundane. The invisible vampire scurried away, low to the ground, and run around the corner of the supermarket. Monroe blinked and let the vision fall. Exhaustion and hunger threatened to overwhelm him.

But there was still a third. He couldn’t falter. Couldn’t let his weakness show. Monroe fixed him with a glare. He was young. Younger than the others. The chalky ashen tone hadn’t yet stolen the life from his grey skin. There was no anger in his eyes, only fear. He had no love or loyalty to the Nosferatu. Like most Anarch gangs, it was just a way to get by. If you weren’t strong enough, someone would tear you apart.

One more chance. The boy would get  _ one _ more.

“What’s your name, boy?” he asked.

The kid licked his lips. “Copper. They call me Copper.”

“Do you want to live here, Copper?”

He nodded his head, fast. His eyes flicked back to the grisly remains of the Brujah. “But I can go. I didn’t mean it, sir, I swear. I won’t bother you. I don’t wanna cause trouble.”

“None,” agreed Monroe. “LA’s the home of second chances. We’ve all done things we rather we hadn’t.” He dug in his pocket for his stack of business cards and handed one over that just had his name and number. “If you need any help, give me a call. Silver Lake’s my home. If you want to live here, you’re my responsibility. That means something to me. Need a house, vessels, connections, a job — we can work something out.”

Stunned, Copper took the card.

Monroe passed a hand over his hair. Every breath felt like fire in his lungs. His body was badly broken. That trick with Dominate had almost knocked him into torpor. Nothing blood wouldn’t fix. Still, there was a Nos who could tell horror stories of his power. The illusion of power was more important than having it. It might buy him another year. 

That Nosferatu had been an idiot.

“Copper,” shouted a voice.

The Beast growled through Monroe’s lips before he could control himself. He had forgotten about the Syndicate in the grocery store and his ghoul.

“You will leave Silver Lake,” he commanded. “Whether you do so of your own will or not is your own choice.”

“Don’t fucking think so.” The last Syndicate hissed. There was a terrible creaking and cracking of bone. His flesh shifted and jerked unnaturally.

Monroe lowered the shotgun. Gangrel. Shape-changers, like Jack. “Fuck,” he hissed.

The Syndicate fell to all fours, growing taller, larger. A shaggy black wolf took his place. The girl ghoul backed up, giggling. Monroe moved to put Copper behind him. He couldn’t count on the kid’s help, but if they both survived this, Copper would remember. The wolf snarled, long canines slavering.

A screech of tires was all the warning they had. The wolf lifted his head and flattened his ears. The SUV ploughed into the beast. It yelped in pain and he bounced off the front hood, landing on the pavement behind. Hawthorne leapt from the car, sword in hand. The Syndicate lost his wolf head and the body crumpled into ash.

Hawthorne made fast work of the bodies, throwing the skeletons and clothes in the trunk, scattering the ashes.

The girl shrieked. Despite being a vampire’s pet, she screamed at the display of unnatural death. Just, stood and screamed like some mortal.

Monroe grit his teeth. She knew him, his mortal mask. He could only imagine the tabloids. Too weary for Dominate, he settled on pointing the gun at her. She silenced.

“Get in the car.” She staggered, slowly, until Hawthorne grabbed her and threw her in the backseat. He turned to Copper, who had backed up a few more steps. “Your choice,” he said. “Come with me, or live in Silver Lake, or go back where you came from.”

“I’m gonna head, if that’s cool?” Copper’s voice lifted in fear.

“Remember what I said, kid,” said Monroe, stepping into the car as Hawthorne did.

The SUV took off at high speeds. She pulled onto the freeway. This late on a weekday, few cars barred their path as she sped up. The scent of blood in the car was strong, too strong. Monroe licked his fangs and groaned.

In the backseat, the girl cried.

“I fucking hate Anarchs,” he growled.

“You don’t say?” said Hawthorne. She was paler than usual. “That was close.”

“I had it under control.”

If this was Camarilla, he would be dragged before the prince for breaking the Sixth Tradition of Destruction. Kindred violence was messy, Masquerade-risking, and entirely unnecessary. Anarchs made it necessary, with their insistence of equal opportunity. Barons encouraged it. No one would simply give you what you wanted. You needed to take it. If you had it, you needed to hold onto it. And it would happen again. 

It was the trade-off one made. He, of course, had nowhere else to go. If he did, he would be there.

“We need to keep guns in the car,” said Hawthorne. She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t jump in—”

“You only would’ve gotten yourself killed,” said Monroe blandly. “Don’t apologize. Thank you for the last one, though.”

Monroe’s head swam as the excitement of the fight wore off. The Beast leered at his hunger. It crawled through his veins like lead. Every motion was agony. It was only pain, he told himself firmly. He hadn’t been this hungry in years. It was a mistake.

“I need to feed,” he said. “Soon.”

Hawthorne indicated to the backseat. “Is she viable?”

The Beast sniffed. Human. Weak, pitiful, prey. Not orphan, though. Not good enough. It mingled with Hawthorne’s scent. Ghouled by his own blood, the finest of Clan Ventrue. The age and strength of will. Orphan, by two centuries.

“No, she isn’t,” said Monroe. “And I’ll need to fix her memories. And we need to get back to that grocery store — check for any cameras, the cashier —”

“How much do you need?” she asked, not taking her eyes from the road.

“More than you can give. Three, maybe four vessels.”

“Could I give you enough to deal with her and then I could pick something up for you?”

Monroe’s lips flickered into a smile. Always pragmatic. He nodded.

At once, Hawthorne pulled off the freeway and into a part of Los Angeles he didn’t recognise, though it could’ve been anywhere. Quiet, dark, an abandoned parking lot behind a strip mall. The doors locked with a click. 

Hawthorne pushed up her sleeve. She offered without fear or apprehension. Her tan abated at the inner arm, where faint blue veins converged, and a spider’s web of scars crossed over. Before he could even thank her, the Beast fell upon the offer of hot blood and he drank. She gasped at the sharp pain — and then the pleasure. The high was spiritual, the feeding of predator on prey, a meeting of minds as more than blood flowed from the veins.

He took as much as he dared. It wasn’t enough. The hunger hurt, still. For the smallest moment, when he rose his head from her wrist, he couldn’t hide the pain he was in. Her soft black eyes touched his. The understanding gave him the strength to compose himself.

“Enough gas in the tank to fix her memories?” she asked.

Monroe nodded and licked what he could off his teeth. Never enough. The Beast’s hunger only truly silenced with drinking a vessel dry. He hadn’t known satiation in well over a century.

The girl cried in the back, but it was no matter. A quick poke in her mind found she had been ghouled for weeks. Pity. He could, of course, shatter her psyche. Dominate was both a scalpel and a hammer. 

He didn’t have the blood to make a nice introduction. If he did, he would’ve made her smile with Presence, wipe those infernal tears, and let her feed on him to her heart’s content. With the Syndicate’s death, she was free. Should be free. But, she had been let past the Masquerade, and so she had her future writ in stone: death, the Embrace, or remaining a ghoul.

Monroe smiled at her. He knew he looked a mess, more than half dead. Battered, broken bones, purple-black bruises. “How would you like to work at Blue Moon?”

With a drop from a finger, he placed her back in the emotional chains of the blood bond. This time, under his control.

  
  


When dusk came, Charlie jerked awake. It was like a switch turning on. She still couldn’t get used to it. At least she could sleep in bed now. Dustin and her had put up some heavy black drapes over her window. Her Beast had whined and complained, straining to keep her awake as the sun came up, but she slept like the dead. Or undead.

The door opened and the sudden beam of light made her flinch. She hissed.

Dustin flipped on the lights in her room. “Yeah, yeah, you’re not you when you’re hungry.”

Charlie rubbed her eyes and sat up. “How long’ve you been here?” she murmured.

“I sent Casey home an hour ago,” he said. “She’s still pretty confused about this whole situation.”

“Well, ‘vampire-friendly babysitter’ wasn’t exactly advertised on Craigslist.”

Monroe had come through with his promise and, as many problems as ten thousand dollars fixed, it had presented a new one. Charlie felt better having Casey around Bella to help get ready in the morning, pick her up after school, and watch her — but there were a lot of questions Charlie couldn’t quite answer. She was pretty sure Casey thought she was in the mob. After seeing Greystone, Charlie couldn’t say she wasn’t.

Dustin sat on the edge of the bed. A plastic bag crackled. “Anyway, I wanted to show you something I found.” He raised the bag with a grin. “I got my cousin to tell me the butcher she uses for blood sausage.”

Charlie laughed. “What?”

“I’m serious,” he said. “They just… sell blood.” He pulled out a pair of plastic quart containers. “I didn’t know how much you’d want, so I only got the two. It’s not kosher, either. He only had pig today. Sometimes he has cow.”

Charlie took the lid off one and sniffed. She recoiled. Acrid, rotten, gamey, sour. It reminded her of farms and sauerkraut.

Dustin lost his smile. “I thought it was a good idea. Sorry.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Charlie took a sip to prove him wrong. It tasted worse than it smelled, but it filled her gnawing empty stomach. She forced a smile that was more a grimace. “See?”

Dustin raised an eyebrow. “Alright, you have breakfast, but there’s also this.” He handed her a piece of paper.

As soon as Charlie read the heading, she groaned. Parent-teacher night. She still had a few weeks to go, but she had forgotten all about it.

“It says there will be snacks,” said Dustin unhelpfully.

She forced herself to gag down the pig’s blood. “I don’t do snacks anymore.”

“Well, I guess no snacks for you,” he said. “Should we file a discrimination lawsuit? School’s gotta provide at least one —  _ one  _ — virgin for each of the upstanding bloodsuckers in our community.”

Charlie threw the page on her dresser and tried and failed to not smile. Bella went to the same elementary school Charlie had. She had all the same teachers. Monroe’s warning about keeping her away from humans lingered in her head. What if she just ate the principal? Mr Douglas had always been an asshole.

“So, how was your day?” she asked. “Did the world self-combust while I slept?”

Dustin shrugged. “Same old. Went to class, went to work, came home. Came here. Bella and I watched some  _ Pokemon _ .”

“Do you have a favourite Pokemon yet?” she asked seriously. “You need to have a favourite Pokemon.”

“Pikachu, of course,” he said, outraged.

Charlie rolled her eyes. “You’re  _ so _ boring. You’re only saying that because he’s Bella’s. What about Eevee? Squirtle?”

“I dunno. I’m more of a Jigglypuff man, myself.”

Charlie pushed him. He stood, still grinning. “Let me get dressed,” she said. “I’m down to watch an episode, but I want to head out tonight.”

Dustin lost his smile. “Don’t tell me you’re going to try and hunt down your sire. We talked about this, Charlie.”

“Take a chill pill,” she insisted. “I want to head to UCLA. Everyone’s been talking about the Professor, some Malkavian guy who lives there. I just want to talk to him.”

Dustin clearly didn’t like the sound of that. “I don’t like the sound of that,” he said.

Charlie ignored the dancing, whispering shadows at the edge of her vision and the gut urge to follow them. It was another reminder of why she needed to meet with the Professor. Malkavian madness, psychosis, or whatever this was, there had to be a better way of handling it. 

“That’s okay,” she said. She pounded the quart of pig blood and felt her stomach churn. Disgusting. “Are you down to watch Bella for a few hours?”

“Well, of course, but—”

“Thank you.”

“But—”

“I’ll watch a couple episodes downstairs, but need to shower first.”

Dustin swallowed whatever he was going to say. “If you’re sure…”

“I am.” Suddenly, Charlie wondered  _ why _ she was so sure. She knew it, deep in her bones, that she should go visit the Professor. Not a few days ago, she didn’t want anything to do with vampires or her sire. 

Another thing to ask him.

Though he wasn’t happy, Dustin left Charlie alone to get ready. She was scarcely present as she showered and dressed. Her phone filled her with dread. Every time she picked it up, she worried the others would call her. They didn’t, though. Not tonight, again. It felt almost surreal, like a vacation from the mundane reality of jobs. Her last nights were filled with Barbies, Pokemon, popcorn, and Bella. She hardly felt like a bloodthirsty creature of the night. Minty toothpaste even chased the last of the blood taste away — aside from the fact it tasted nothing like mint. More like dirt.

Charlie pulled her wet hair back in a ponytail and made her way downstairs. Like he said, Dustin and Bella sat in front of the TV with a box of Goldfish crackers and  _ Pokemon _ playing. Bella sat on the floor in a nest of cards that she kept touching lovingly. She spun around when she heard Charlie on the steps and broke out into a toothy grin.

“Finally,” she demanded. “I’ll catch you up on what’s happening.”

“Good morning to you, too.”

Bella continued on about the gym leaders and Team Rocket’s latest hijinks. Charlie sat next to Dustin and took a handful of crackers by habit. Remembering how she spontaneously vomited last time, she tipped them into his hand and brushed the salt-cheese dust from her fingers. They smelled nice, at least.

Once she had finished, Bella threw herself on the couch next to Charlie. She sang along to the theme tune and excitedly named every Pokemon in their funny voices. It was a gift to see her so happy, especially after Charlie had spent the last year disappointing her. The show wasn’t even bad.

Charlie watched the clock more than the TV. The minute hand moved too fast.  _ Seven _ , she decided. She would leave at seven. Then seven o’clock came and went. Seven-thirty.

Charlie sighed. The air came and left her. “I think it’s time for me to go.”

Bella jumped up and pushed Charlie back into the couch. “What? Why?”

“Pushing isn’t very nice,” she said.

“You aren’t very nice,” snapped Bella. She crossed her arms, but her face wobbled. “You always leave and you’re never home.”

“Cause I need to get to work.”

Charlie stood up and stepped around Bella, who promptly burst into tears. The sound echoed in her chest.

“Fine. Go, stupid-head. I don’t want you anyway.” She threw her cards at Charlie’s face and they fluttered down. Bella stomped back upstairs. “I hate you. I wish everyone would just leave me alone.”

The door slammed.

Charlie looked to Dustin. “Just, give me a minute.”

He raised his hands. “Take all the time you need.”

Charlie followed Bella upstairs. She heard furniture scraping across the floor. “Bells, can I come in?” Charlie opened the door and it hit the edge of a chair.

“No,” she snapped. “Leave me alone. Don’t play like you care.”

“I do, though.” Charlie let the door hang part open. She slid against the wall and sat outside. “I’m sorry. I’m trying my best, but I don’t know what to do anymore than you do. I know you think I’m really old, but I’m only twenty.”

“You’re really damn old. And smelly.” Bella’s voice was strained, thick, and watery. 

Charlie didn’t even bother trying to correct her language. “I know. There are things I need to do, though—”

“Mom didn’t need to do them. Why do I got to lose you too?” 

“Mom was a real grown-up,” said Charlie. She felt a pressure behind her eyes, but she couldn’t cry. Not now. Bella couldn’t see blood streaming down her face. “I wish she was still here to tell me what to do, but she’snot. And you won’t lose me. I promise. I’m still right here.”

“No, you’re not.” Bella cried earnestly. High pitched sobs broke through her words. “You’re gonna leave.”

Charlie pushed the door open and the chair scraped across the floor again. The hallway flooded light into the dark bedroom. Bella curled under the covers in a shaking bundle. Charlie sat next to her and put a hand on her.

“I’ll always be back,” she promised. “There are things I need to do sometimes, but I’m coming home.”

Bella’s head poked above the sheet. Her eyes were red and scrunched. She just shook her head. “You’re a liar,” she whispered. 

Charlie fought herself to not cry. “I love you.”

Bella sobbed again and dove under the sheet. “Go away.”

“Dustin will still be here,” said Charlie thickly. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Go away.”

And Charlie went.

Dustin had turned off  _ Pokemon _ and changed to some cop show. His eyes tracked her as she put on a jean jacket and shoes.

“How is she?” he asked.

“She put herself to bed,” said Charlie shortly. “I’m going to see the Professor. I’ll be back.” She spared a faint smile for him before leaving and locking them in.

A cloud followed Charlie as she got in the red Toyota. As the door slammed, it started to rain. Charlie couldn’t hold back the tears in her eyes and she let herself cry. This wasn’t fair. Not to her or Bella. Nothing was. Charlie did the best she could. Bella had Oscar, Dustin, all her dolls and Legos and  _ Pokemon _ . There was no danger of the lights going out again or having no food in the fridge. But she wasn’t their mother. She didn’t know what to say, how to raise a child, let alone what to tell Bella about why she slept all day and didn’t eat dinner. 

A phantom touch grabbed her leg. Charlie slapped it instinctively, but there was nothing there. 

She grabbed a fistful of her black shirt and wiped her face. 

Right now, she needed to look after herself. She couldn’t keep living like this. Was that black car following her on the freeway? Was it even real? It turned onto the next exit and vanished in a puff of grey smoke. Was that a magic vampire thing? Her knuckles whitened on the steering wheel.

UCLA appeared faster than she thought it would. The campus held stale, stilted memories for her. Dustin, Rita, Meg, Carlos, her old friends from high school had all gone there with her. The first year had been great. The freedom, sharing an off-campus apartment with two bedrooms between them, Meg’s dating disasters, and Dustin’s friends from his synagogue had a cool band that played on campus sometimes. Then, the accident, the funeral. Charlie’s grades slipped as she took a second and then third job. Bella needed her. She moved out, dropped out of classes.

Charlie’s shoes crunched across the familiar gravel. By night, it felt so different. The old Gothic buildings cast sharp shadows across their gargoyles. The modern library looked deserted, glass walls flooding the empty streets with light. She felt like a ghost. A shudder wove through her, like a trickle of ice water. She knew, without looking down, she had turned invisible again.

How was she even supposed to find the Professor? UCLA was huge, basically two or three neighbourhoods crammed together. It had a hospital and a chic downtown area, not to mention the dorms and libraries and classroom buildings.

The doors of the next building burst open, shocking Charlie. The only sound in the night was their chatter. All Charlie could see was their smiles. They clutched bookbags and backpacks. She absorbed their conversation, staring. Mo was such a dork, he kept using biology terms as Harry Potter spells. He thought he was funny, at least. The girl next to him thought so too. Sam. She touched his shoulder. Robbie kept rehashing their notes until Sam told him to shut up. They could’ve been brother and sister. Large noses, mousy brown hair, the same smile. Robbie was irritable, worried about flunking. This was important.

They walked right past her and continued onto the parking lot. The darkness muffled their voices as they crossed the quad. Time for a late dinner. McDonalds? Tacos? No, we had tacos last night. She didn’t know how long she stood watching them.

“Charlotte Bradley,” a quiet voice said behind her, “thank you for stopping by.”

She flinched and turned. An older man with wire-rimmed glasses stood at the stoop of the building where the students had come out of. He wore ironed slacks and a sweater vest. He was Black but, like Zari, had an ashen tone to his skin that wasn’t wholly natural.

“I’m — But I’m invisible,” she said, feeling stupid.

He smiled. He had a nice smile and warm trusting eyes. “Why don’t we step into my office?”

Without waiting for her answer, he turned and went back inside. Charlie followed him. His shoes echoed off the granite floors. A hallway of frosted glass doors, each of them dark. There was something forbidden about being on campus this late, when all the classes finished. He stopped in front of a door and opened it, waiting for her to enter first.

It could’ve been anyone’s office. Nothing said  _ vampire _ to her. The desk was cheap laminate wood with a computer so old it could’ve graduated middle school. Framed quotes and degrees hung on the walls, with a special photo of a tabby cat beside the desktop. Tentatively, she sat.

He closed the door and sat behind the desk. “Do you feel more comfortable being invisible?”

She shrugged. “I don’t really know how to turn it off. I mean, I tried punching and that shut it off.”

He nodded. “Forceful interaction with the physical world will disrupt Obfuscate. Try this, take a deep breath.” He waited for her to do it before continuing. It felt strange and she realised she hadn’t been breathing. “Focus on the air, the chair under you, your feet on the floor, the physical embodiment of the world. You are here and deserve to be part of that world, to be seen.”

Charlie let the breath out and did as he said. It felt like sinking, like a puzzle piece clicking in. She started and glanced down at her hands. Physical, fleshy. “Thanks,” she said. “You’re the Professor, right?”

He nodded. “Professor Colin Nelson. I was wondering when you would come to see me.”

“You knew I would come?”

“Hoping,” he said kindly. “What is done is done, but we can at least make the best of the night.”

Charlie remembered the argument she had had with Dustin the other night. “I met my sire — Rhys. He said you got mad with him for turning me.”

The Professor’s brow knit together and he looked down his glasses. “I did. The Embrace isn’t something to give on a whim, especially not ours and certainly not on behalf of the Cobweb.”

“What’s the Cobweb?”

The Professor leaned back and folded his hands across his chest. “No one really knows. It connects every Child of Malkav. Some say Malkav, the first of our clan, is the spider at the heart of it, the center of the connection to future, past, and each other that we share. Tonight, perhaps you simply wanted to meet another Malkavian, or perhaps you felt me through the Cobweb, hoping you would seek me out.”

“He thought that the voices in his head wanted him to kill me,” she said slowly as the horror dawned on her.

“No,” the Professor said sternly. His eyes seemed to flash. “Rhys made a selfish decision and has attempted to justify it with the Cobweb. Every clan thinks it has the worst curse and has learned to Embrace in hopes of giving a childe the best chance for success.”

“What did he see in me, then?” she asked.

The Professor shook his head. “Nothing that merited what he did to you, my dear. He told me all of it — how you dappled with mystical beliefs and tarot cards, the colour of your aura, the encouragement from the Cobweb, the strength of character you displayed when your mother died.”

“My witchy Goth phase got me turned into a vampire?” Charlie repeated dimly. 

The Professor smiled again, but it was sad. The emotion etched into every line of his face. “If you hadn’t, he would’ve found other excuses. I am truly sorry.”

His answer stole something from her that she hadn’t realised she had been relying on. Surely,  _ surely _ there had been a reason. There had to be a reason for someone to kill her and turn her. That it had been nothing more than a cruel whim hurt more than she was willing to admit.

“Is there a way to stop it? The Cobweb?” Charlie’s knee bounced erratically. 

“Many have tried, including myself. Drinking blood from those mortals with antipsychotic drugs in their system. Magical rituals, prayer, diablerie, but nothing will silence the Cobweb fully. It is best to ignore it.”

“That’s a lot easier said than done,” said Charlie weakly. The prospect of facing the Cobweb for the rest of eternity filled her with dread. She felt like she had made a mistake coming. The answers were too heavy for her to carry. They weighed more than her questions.

“It is,” the Professor agreed. “That is why we should not Embrace, regardless how dire the situation. I told him to at least take care of you. Evidently, he didn’t. I’ve sent Mr Monroe my thanks.” He frowned and his eyes narrowed slightly. “Have you been feeding regularly?”

“What’s the proper care and feeding for vampires?” she asked with a nervous smile.

“Until the hunger abates and the Beast and Cobweb begin to quiet,” said the Professor seriously. “Everyone needs different amounts, depending on how they call upon the Blood. I provide a quart of bovine blood at my classes for each student.”

“What sorts of classes?” asked Charlie. “Psychology?”

The Professor laughed. “My classes — most of them, anyway — aren’t on the UCLA’s directory. For November, I will teach a class on Auspex on Sunday nights, another on kindred history during the Renaissance in Europe Tuesdays and Thursdays”

Both should’ve been interesting. Auspex, as Orsay had told her, was the Discipline of senses, the radio of the Cobweb. And vampire history? Who wouldn’t want to learn that?

Charlie couldn’t summon the will to care, though. “Sounds cool,” she said weakly.

When he didn’t say anything else, just patiently waiting for her to ask another question, Charlie felt herself crack. She didn’t have the answers. She didn’t even have the questions. 

“I don’t know what to do,” she said helplessly. Her head fell into her hands, heavy and distant.

The Professor stood. She felt him kneel beside her. “Is this about your sister?”

Charlie’s head whipped up, but he only looked at her with concern. She shook her head. A pressure built in it. “No, I don’t have a sister, I—”

“It’s okay, Charlie,” he said. “Rhys told me.”

The pressure in her head intensified. “No, no, please, I don’t have a sister. I live by myself.”

The Professor put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s cruel to expect us to just leave our families, especially those dependent on us,” he said. “There is no reason why she can’t simply grow up and be raised by a kindred.”

Charlie shook her head again, remembering her conversation at Blue Moon. “Cleaver—”

“Is a cold and cruel word for those who have made a hard choice,” he said. “Self-control is a hard road to walk, but worthy. Ask any monk.”

“How likely is it, do you think, that someone could hurt Bella?” whispered Charlie. She threw the office door a fearful look, as though someone listened at the keyhole.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But it would be by a kindred seeking to hurt one you love. That chance would not be lessened by leaving her in an orphanage.”

The pressure behind her eyes boiled over and the cool bloody tears dripped down her face for the second time that night. “I don’t know what to do,” she said again. “I’m so scared that someone will find out about her.”

“You can’t live your unlife in fear,” he said gently. “All you can do is prepare. Come now.” He ripped a handful of tissues and pressed them into her hands. “Let me help you.”

She smeared the bloody tears away. “Why would you?”

“You are not the first neonate to cry in my office and you won’t be the last,” he said. “I’ve spent the last century helping those who ask for it. We were all human once. We should act like it.”

Charlie looked back at him, but couldn’t find anything malicious. She wanted to trust him, but she couldn’t help but think of Rhys and the baron. “How could you help me?”

“I have people who I trust who could watch the house and spring into action if needed. Would that put you at ease?”

“No,” she admitted. She didn’t like the idea of people watching the house. She didn’t trust them. She didn’t even trust the Professor. She should never have come.

The Professor thought about it. “Well, I am also quite well respected, especially for a Malkavian. I could keep an ear out for anyone in the city who might want to hurt you and warn you.”

Charlie raised her head. “That could work.”

The Professor’s smile widened and she felt herself smile back. “I promise you, Charlotte, I know it feels like your life has come to an end but it is only just beginning. So long as there is life, there is hope. We aren’t monsters.”

There was something in his voice, how sure he was, the knowledge, that made Charlie believe, even if only for a second, that things would turn out okay.


	6. The Sacred Denny's

The quiet was comfortable, soothing even. Monroe let their shared silence build. The pain from the Syndicates’ beating had faded with an ocean of blood — five vessels in total, young and attractive fans from his venue who admired him — and the worst of the wounds healed. Still, the streets felt a little darker, a little less safe. Monroe did not leave the house unarmed anymore. Even a pistol was little comfort, but it was something.

He navigated through the music as Hawthorne drove. Finding what he was searching for, he hit play on the basement-made demo. Chopshop had really improved over the last few years. Not only showmanship, but the lead singer had begun writing more complex melodies and poetic lyrics. It felt like nineties ska, but heavier, almost with an influence of Eurodance. Innovative, but with roots. It might be time to sign them. Even kindred powers didn’t promise success, but Monroe thought himself good at this. If not good, then lucky. 

“Am I wrong?” he asked her. “Tell me I’m right.”

Hawthorne inclined her head but didn’t take her eyes from the road. “I made a sacred oath to never lie to my vampiric overlord, oh master of mine.”

“I’m not saying national, but they have a chance to become successful in the scene,” he argued.

She listened a while longer. “Maybe. Someone needs to Dominate some talent into the drummer.”

Monroe shook his head. “But there’s potential.”

“It’s a bit old.”

“Everything old is new again,” he said.

“Speaking of,” she said, “when should I contact Zachary Grimes for a backup mask?”

Monroe grimaced. Typically, Grimes, another stray he had once mentored, made him a new driver’s license every twenty years — just a scrap of identification he could throw at police, should it come to it. Three years ago, he had asked Grimes for one bearing his own name and he had purchased Blue Moon. Abandoning his mask would mean stepping back into the shadows.

“I still have some time,” he said mildly. “It’s only been three years.”

“What are we going to do when you abandon the mask?”

The question was harmless enough but it felt like an attack.

Monroe glared. “There are many things we  _ can _ do, none of them pleasant. We can abandon LA altogether and search for another Free State. I can kill the mask and have to lie low for a few decades, operate Blue from behind the scenes.”

“We both know you won’t do that.” She scoffed and pulled off the freeway. “Let another take credit for you work? How scandalous.”

Monroe swallowed his confession. Truth be told, he didn’t know what he would do. Still, Hawthorne would follow him and had little choice in the matter. He didn’t have the right to burden her with his concerns.

Hawthorne must’ve gathered from his quiet that he held something back.

“You will figure something out,” she said.

He nodded shortly. She was right. He had to. Even if he couldn’t, he must. At the very least, Hawthorne depended on him. At most, Jack and Zari might follow him, not to mention Charlie.

Hawthorne slowed in front of an apartment complex and opened the back windows. At once, there was a flapping of wings and a black crow flew straight in. It smashed against the inside door and croaked a complaint. The bird was a spectacular specimen of its species, overly large with shiny ink black wings. The claws marked the leather interior with more pencil white lines.

A rough creaking of bones and ruffling of feathers, and the wings lengthened, gaining structure and taking on the rough shine of a leather jacket. Moments later, Jack finished his transformation and rubbed his head.

“I  _ will _ stick the landing one day,” he swore.

“Or you could open the door with your hands,” suggested Monroe.

Jack laughed. “Where’s the fun in that? Come on, you’re just jealous.” He leaned across the back of their seats. “How’s it going, Miss H?”

“Can’t complain,” she said.

Jack grabbed at the edge of Monroe’s collar and tugged it. “Hey, hey, captain, if we have to deal with the serpent, we should get snake beer for Blue.”

“I promised Miss Zhao that I wouldn’t,” he said. “You can get yourself a six-pack if you want.”

Hawthorne had pulled away from the apartment complex and made her way back onto the freeway. Jack noted.

“Any reason we ain’t picking up Zari, too?”

“She’s busy,” said Monroe. “How has Charlie been?”

Jack sat back, confused by the question. “Fine. I mean, she’s new but tough. She’ll be okay and I don’t think she’s in any sunrise danger. What’s wrong?”

“Hunting,” he said briefly. “I haven’t taken her, but she doesn’t like me and I don’t think she would appreciate if I showed her. She saw what I paid Orsay with.”

Jack whistled low. “That must’ve been rough.”

“There’s been a lot of violence of late,” he admitted, “but learning to safely hunt is crucial and I’m afraid she won’t listen to me.”

“I’ll take care of it, captain. I was planning on going to Disneyland with some of the Last Round. We could take her and hunt?”

Monroe nodded. Damsel and Skelter were hardly in his good books, but he had to accept they were more personable and contemporary to Charlie than himself. “Thank you, Jack,” he said sincerely. “I’ll settle Fortier.”

Jack shook his head. “Nah, man. It’s fine. Nines squared it already, I’m just an honoured guest.”

Monroe nodded. “Thank God no one wants to deal with Rubio. Velour will settle our business for delivering a few messages.”

“Clans have baggage.” Jack shrugged. “It sucks, but what can you do?”

“Charlie doesn’t know the baggage,” he reminded. “She will be able to judge him on his own merits. In time, fledglings like her will change perceptions.”

Jack leaned back. “You gotta be fair, though, as much as I like Manny, he’s kinda weird.”

Hawthorne navigated the suburbs to Charlie’s house. It was a quaint place, if a bit untended. Suburbs were always out of kindred interest, isolated. All the better. Reluctantly, the fledgling slid into the backseat. The door slammed.

Her and Jack exchanged friendly greetings.

“You were pretty vague in the chat,” she accused Monroe. “Where are we going? Another  _ contact _ ?”

“Yes, actually,” said Monroe. “Manuel Rubio, the one and only Setite in LA. I have some business with him.”

Charlie wrinkled her nose.

“Dude’s nothing like Ashley,” promised Jack. She didn’t believe him.

“And Setites are what?”

“Just another clan,” said Monroe. Perhaps it would’ve been prudent to warn her of the dangers of the Followers of Set — their holy mission of corruption and debauchery — but that would only smear Rubio.

The public domain of Manuel Rubio looked very little like the headquarters of an evil snake-worshipping cult and very much like a Denny’s. It in fact was a Denny’s. It stood in a corner of Los Feliz that half the city might’ve zipped by without a thought. Even this late at night, the parking lot was almost packed.

Dawson stopped beside Monroe and rolled down his window. In the back, his two men sat with enough armaments to land him in a federal prison. They were all young ghouls. None knew what Monroe had done to them. Each had a spotty and violent history, but a fat paycheque to avoid questions. All they knew was that Monroe was the bee’s knees and they always felt better after monthly team parties.

“Wait here,” he told them curtly. “I’ll alert you if I need you.”

Dawson’s eyes held nothing less than worship. “Sir, absolutely, sir, no harm will come to you or Mr Shen or Miss Bradley on our watch. Sir, we are prepared for assaults…”

Monroe let him blabber. It was his punishment for making ghouls.

Once Dawson had satisfied his ghoulish Beast, Monroe wished him a good evening and his men settled in for a boring time.

“Where’s Zari?” Charlie turned around, as though she might pop up from the trunk. 

“Busy,” replied Jack.

Charlie stepped out with a bemused look. “And we’re meeting an evil vampire at Denny’s… on Halloween?”

“He will love to tell you all about himself,” said Jack with a snort. He held open the door for her and let Monroe catch it.

Inside, it also appeared very much like a Denny’s, if peculiarly busy for the late hours. Few of the red vinyl booths were empty. The ones that did have people didn’t exactly have sober people. They laughed too long, spoke too loud. The din of college students provided cover.

At the long breakfast bar, a skinny kid sat on a stool with a novel in his lap. He was clearly Latino, but a touch grey in the skin, as though he had taken ill. His hair was bound back in a hairnet and the ghost of a moustache hovered over his lip. His legs were pulled up on the high rung of the stool and he looked like a light breeze would knock him over.

He waved a hand. “Go on, guys, seat yourselves, I’ll be there—”

Monroe dropped a plastic grocery bag on the breakfast bar. “Happy Halloween, Rubio.”

He glanced up and grinned, pawing through the bag. “Monroe and the Fifth Estate, as I live and breathe,” he said ironically. “Oh, yes, very funny.” He pulled out overlarge cloves of elephant garlic and brought them to his nose. In a single fluid motion, he leapt over the bar. He stuck out his hand, wringing each of theirs in turn. “Mr Monroe, your gift is very appreciated, gracias. Miss Hawthorne, cousin of the Blood, I wish for you to enjoy your sun and mortal pleasures. Mr Shen, strong as the Duat and just as sharp.”

Charlie’s eyes widened but she shook his hand. Rubio’s demeanor was off-putting at the best of times. She jerked in the handshake. Rubio blinked and his eyes were no longer a warm dark brown, but a slitted yellow, veined with green. His fangs were long and needle-like.

“And… you are then Charlie Bradley, newborn Childe of Malkav,” he said. His words echoed in a chorus of a hundred voices. 

“Rubio,” warned Monroe.

He brayed like a donkey. “Ah, it’s alright, I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist messing with a new bat. Want a drink?”

Before Monroe could answer, Rubio leapt behind the bar again and pulled six pints for them. The liquid was a ruddy amber, the foam tinged pink.

“I would say ‘To the Dark Father Set’, but I think we’re all a little beyond that, huh?” asked Rubio. Though his snake-like fangs had retracted, his eyes hadn’t returned to normal. “To the Anarchs?” he suggested. 

They cheered and clinked. The ability to make beer kindred could drink was a Setite specialty, sacred to the clan that was more a cult, and Rubio sold it at a premium. He had confided more than once that he only jacked his prices so high because most Anarchs had never met a Setite and thought he could turn them into rattlesnakes.

Charlie put the glass to her lips but didn’t drink.

“Come on, girl,” complained Rubio. “This is good shit. Probably my best batch. Calling it ‘Sunrise Down’.”

“Give her a break,” said Jack. “She’ll realise soon enough that she won’t be able to drink anything else.”

Charlie took a few gulps and shrugged. “Not bad.”

Rubio clutched his heart. “ _ Not bad _ ? ‘Not bad,’ she say? Don’t you Anarchs know yet that I can curse you with locusts and shit?”

Charlie glanced at Monroe, who shook his head.

“The more vocally and aggressively someone threatens you, the less likely they have the ability to follow through on those threats,” he said.

Rubio snorted. “How very dare you. I can be mighty if I want.”

Monroe glossed an eye over Rubio’s scrawny teenage form. It was not necessarily representative of his physical abilities, but Rubio thrived on his perception of power. “I’m sure you could.”

Once Rubio started, especially with a glass of his own beer in hand, it was hard to get him to shut up. “Hey, can you guys get Zari run my ad again?” Before they could respond, he leaned across the bar. “Look, I try to advertise, I really do, but not many like to use my services. Old Guard and Cam types — no offenses, my dude — are all ‘ooh, yes, let’s make a deal’, because they don’t trust anything they don’t see a dotted line on but — hey, if someone insists on doing me a solid because they don’t believe in honour among gods, I’m not gonna stop them, you dig? I get it. My clan likes to play at missionary. Let’s get real here, if you didn’t find religion in life, you ain’t finding it in undeath, feel me? I mean, look at me, raised Catholic, sired as a Follower of Set, and I’m still only culturally Setite at best. Baby bat, you know what I mean?”

The sudden silence hung heavy in Rubio’s cheerful toothy smile. His yellow eyes blinked, not from the top down but sideways. 

“Honour among gods?” repeated Charlie.

Rubio slapped the table. “ _ That’s  _ what I’m saying. No matter what you be calling us — Abrahamic types call us ‘Damned’, Cainite Heresy guys think we’re angels, Setites think we be all the blood of ancient gods — we all just gotta work together, see? I do favours, no questions asked. Set’s honour. Anyhoo, you guys didn’t come for the free beers. What’s cooking? Aside from the garlic.” He laughed to himself.

“I came for the beer,” whispered Jack loudly.

Rubio topped off his empty glass. “No kidding, brother. Want some for the road?”

“Of course.”

As they discussed Rubio’s new brews and fermentations (“I’ve started getting into malts, adding some human blood in at the half-moon along with my own”), Monroe chose his words very carefully. Often, he prided himself on winging it but he needed a very specific reaction from Rubio.

“All right, buddy, I’ll be right back.” Rubio disappeared into the backroom with Jack’s order.

“How do you like Manny?” Jack asked Charlie.

Charlie spun her glass between her fingers and took another drink. “Honestly, he’s the first v — kindred I’ve met who seems, like,  _ normal _ .”

Hawthorne choked on her beer. Monroe patted her on the back.

“He’s strange but he’s still—” Charlie sought hopelessly for the word. “Human? Like, he’s got some joy in him that doesn’t come from hurting people?”

Jack frowned. “We don’t like hurting people.”

“Kine,” said Monroe quietly. They turned to him. It wasn’t a pleasant thing to learn but one Charlie was on the edge of understanding. “Kine is the common term for mortals. It means cattle. And cattle aren’t people.”

The look Charlie gave him was beyond reproach. “The fuck is wrong with everyone?” she demanded. She turned wildly to Jack, who only shrugged.

“I mean, he’s harsh but he ain’t wrong.”

Charlie’s shoulders slumped and she downed what remained of her glass.

The swinging door behind the bar opened again.

“Bada bing, bada beer,” said Rubio with a grin. He dropped a custom six-pack on the bar in front of Jack. The cardboard had been painted with writhing green snakes. Rubio pointed to Charlie’s glass. “Want a sampler pack to take home?”

She shook her head. “I’m good, man, thanks.”

Rubio smiled at Hawthorne. “How does cousin like it, then? Heard once that the Brew can sustain ghouls.”

Hawthorne analyzed her almost-empty glass. “It’s great. I liked Ruby Empress a lot, though. Do you have anything like that?”

She started him off again. Rubio could talk until sunrise about brewing and all manner of hops and grains and blood types. Charlie had one thing right, at least. Rubio had enough decades under his belt that he shouldn’t have been so animated, so lively. And yet, he was. It took a concerted effort.

Rubio pulled a couple bottles from under the counter. “My last of Empress,” he whispered with a wink. “If it’s such a big hitter, I might make a new batch, eh? For my favourite  _ only _ .”

Hawthorne accepted them. A delicate red flush crept up her neck. Few kindred addressed ghouls directly while in mixed company, fewer even who invited them into the conversation. “Thanks.”

“Anything for you while I’m up?” Rubio asked Monroe. He inched back towards his stool. “Going once.”

“I actually had to discuss something with you,” said Monroe. He grimaced, as though he knew he asked too much.

Rubio’s brow fell in concern and he leaned across the bar. “What’s the matter?”

“Velvet Velour,” said Monroe. “I owe her a favour. To settle, she wants an arrangement: one keg of snake beer a week, delivered to Vesuvius in Hollywood.”

Rubio stood up sharply, offended. “ _ She _ wants to settle your debt with  _ her _ because she doesn’t even want to come and talk to me?”

Monroe shook his head. “I agreed to pay your prices for ten years, upfront.”

“Fuck those prices,” said Rubio aggressively. His S’s began to hiss. “Abarms’s stuck-up, shit-scented rose can shove it up her ass. I’ll do it for free, man, but only if you tell her that I charged you an arm and a leg —  _ all  _ your arms and legs.”

Monroe smiled. Maybe one day Zari would see the sense in making friends with those others avoided. “Of course,” he said. “I really do appreciate it.”

Rubio pounded his own beer. “Man, no offence, but  _ fuck _ Toreadors.”

Jack nodded and raised his own glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

It started another round of cheering to the general low-lying hatred every clan had for the others. As Monroe sipped, he began to feel the alcohol creep up on him. Drinking from drunk kine felt like hitting a brick wall, but snake beer was the gentle golden glimmer of mortal intoxication. Most kindred missed it dearly. It brought back unfortunate memories for Monroe, who spent the last weeks of his mortal life in a drunken stupor to stave off the pain from a lethal injury. Even so, Fowler had shot him to death before Embracing him. Bastard. His left shoulder ached at the thought.

Rubio dutifully topped up Monroe’s glass. Monroe smiled back. What would Fowler say to having his eldest childe drinking blasphemous Typhon’s Brew with a Follower of Set?

“You look like you wanna bite me,” said Rubio with a grin. “I don’t mind but, hey, let’s not scare the kids.”

“If I ever decide on trying that, I’ll give Ashley a call,” said Monroe dryly.

Rubio turned his wicked eye to Charlie. “We don’t fuck,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. “Give it — what, ten years? Five? — the best feeling will be sucking and being sucked.”

“So vulgar.” Monroe snorted.

“Don’t do it,” said Jack urgently. “Even if you want to, don’t drink from another V.”

“Why?” asked Charlie, too loudly. “If I gotta lose my sexuality — Oh God.” She stared into the bottom of her second drink with horror. “I died a virgin.”

Rubio cackled. “You didn’t miss much. This is better.”

“Nuh-uh,” said Jack, hurriedly swallowing his drink. “Okay, so, lesson time. The blood bond…”

Monroe swiftly tuned them out. Jack had it under control and Charlie listened raptly as he explained the dangers. 

“Any news?” he asked Rubio. In addition to his brewing operation, Rubio had a sorcery of knowing things he shouldn’t. 

Rubio shook his head. “I mean, nothing particularly juicy. Garcia apparently is watching another potential Embrace.”

“Poor girl,” he said indifferently.

Rubio gasped. “Never said it was a girl. How did you know?”

“Garica’s two childer are both girls. Is this one of the age of majority, at least?”

Rubio made a show of zipping his lips and throwing away the key. The silence lasted five seconds. “Of fucking course not. Miranda was sixteen, Lorenza was, what, fifteen?”

“Is this one thirteen?” asked Monroe, only partially joking. 

Kindred always had types. Those they fed on, those they Embraced, or ghouled. It often corresponded to a mortal figure from a past life. For all Monroe knew, Garcia chose young girls who resembled a lost sister or niece — or daughter. Garcia did tend to fuss over his childer, too. Specifically in the ways he discouraged others from: advising, teaching, leading them into their new life. In truth, Monroe doubted there was anything more nefarious than hypocrisy.

Still, it made excellent gossip.

“Almost,” said Rubio. “Valeria Gomez’s thirteenth birthday is in December. Rumour says that’s when Garcia will spirit her away.”

He held something back. Monroe wasn’t sober enough or knowledgeable enough in this area to know  _ what _ , exactly. Still. Blood will out. Rubio was a Setite and Setites, while they often dealt in information, never gave full truths.

“Poor girl,” he said again, turning to his drink.

A customer reeking of marijuana stepped up to the bar. “Hey, bro, don’t wanna intrude or anything—”

Rubio blinked and his eyes returned to brown. “Of course, man, what can I do for you? Pancakes?”

“Actually, we just wanted the bill — Pancakes?” The man did a doubletake, weighing the option. “Pancakes would be cool. Thanks, man.”

Rubio called something back to the kitchen in Spanish.

“You should get around to opening a restaurant,” urged Monroe. “I could cut you the cheque, right now. Be your first investor.”

Rubio hissed, not in the way kindred hissed — guttural, more a growl — but the high endless rattle of a snake. “I will do it on my own merits or not at all.”

“Consider it a favour between gods.”

“Monroe, I told you no.” Despite his curt words, Rubio made a show of refilling their glasses. “Business is well, here. I’ll have enough in another decade or so.”

“Hey,” said Charlie, too loudly. Rubio stopped pouring, interpreting her exclamation as a protest. She fixed him with a wobbly stare. “Are we at war with werewolves and are werewolves real?”

Rubio barked a laugh. Once he started, Jack and Hawthorne quickly joined in. Monroe cracked a smile.

“We sort of stay out of each other’s way,” said Hawthorne. “Werewolves can’t stand our scent. We like our intestines where they are.”

Charlie’s mouth fell open. “So  _ Underworld _ was right?”

Monroe turned to Hawthrone as his reference on culture. “That’s a film, right? Is it right?” She shook her head discreetly. “No,” he proclaimed. “ _ But _ the lupines live in the wilderness between cities. We infest cities.”

“You haven’t seen  _ Underworld _ ?” asked Charlie in disgust. “What kind of vampire are you?”

Monroe opened his mouth to argue, but Rubio interrupted him.

“Cousins, cousins,” said Rubio smoothly, taking off his apron, “I have a media room in the basement, including all manner of vampire cinema.”

“Do you have the new  _ Van Helsing _ ?” asked Hawthorne. 

Charlie glared down the bar. “That movie was shit.”

“Please, no talk of hunters,” said Monroe, cringing.

It took him several minutes, but Rubio managed to coax the vampires into his private haven. Thirty years in the Denny’s had seen him turn the basement into a comfortable if plain rec room. A rack of beer bottles lined one wall, crates forming a wall to block off the fermenting vats of his beer. The entire room smelled of brewing beer and blood.

Charlie leapt into the tweed couch. A projector in the ceiling played against a screen. “So, are we going to turn the lights out and —  _ oh my god _ .” She skittered backwards as a drunk black Californian cougar tried and failed to get up on the couch.

Hawthorne howled with laughter. The feline had a nasty glare in his eye for Charlie, who still stared as he managed to curl up on the couch beside her. Rubio sat between Charlie and Jack, giving him a hearty pat on the head.

“Jack doesn’t like to be in his human form, if he can help it,” said Monroe, struggling not to laugh as well. He sat with Hawthorne on another couch. The heat of her blood lingered in the air. Too soon. After the Syndicates, he couldn’t feed again on her for another week. Didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the scent. Almond and cherry and his blood in her veins. He got lost in it and quickly averted his eyes. 

Charlie nodded slightly. “Of course. Of  _ course,  _ Jack is a cat.” She eyed Rubio with distrust. “Don’t go turning into a giant snake on me, man.”

The evil glint in Rubio’s eyes said that was exactly what he had planned on doing but, reluctantly, he retained his human form. Rubio pulled a laptop from under the coffee table and browsed his film collection, projecting what was surely  _ Underworld _ onto the screen. He set the laptop down and it reverted to a split screen of security cameras for upstairs.

_ Blade _ was the last film Hawthorne had forced Monroe to watch. He hadn’t enjoyed it. He didn’t enjoy this one either. Rather, he enjoyed the enjoyment of his coterie. For once, Charlie appeared like the young woman she was, rather than the frightened Damned fledgling she had become.

Rubio, as ever, was a gracious and attentive host, desperate, as he always was, for company. They opened enough beer bottles to make fistfuls of caps. Jack even had a bowl balanced on his paws that he slurped from constantly. Charlie, Hawthorne, and Rubio grew louder, rowdier. The film was half-forgotten.

Monroe quickly retired to blood bags in an attempt to purge the alcohol from his system. He fully expected the coterie to spend the day, but it was best not to assume. The stale blood bit with a chemical taste from preservatives. It worked away on his lingering bruises.

Hawthorne laughed raucously at something Charlie had said. Her eyes ran into Monroe’s and he, content, managed to smile at his retainer.

“So, can  _ I _ learn to turn into a big cat?” asked Charlie. “I mean I can do  _ this _ .” Her face contracted and, in her wavering concentration, she flickered in and out of sight like an old television.

Rubio vanished with infinitely more control, his grin remaining like the Cheshire Cat. “Clans are only branches off the main river, but we all share the same blood,” his lips said. “Any clan can learn any Discipline, even Protean.”

“What’s the main river?”

Rubio reappeared. His smile hardened ever so slightly. “You are shrewd,” he drawled. He turned to address Monroe. “Your new fledgling, she is sharp.”

“I’m not anyone’s fledgling,” argued Charlie.

“Of course not,” said Rubio with a roll of his eyes. “The main river is Caine. As in ‘Caine and Abel’, the First Murderer, cursed by God’s angels—”

“Don’t fill her head with this Noddist garbage,” snorted Monroe. “No one knows who or what came before the clan’s progenitors.”

“Yes, but they are the Third Generation,” said Rubio leadingly. “Who, then, are the Second but Caine’s general, lover, and advisor?”

“Literally anyone,” said Monroe wearily. “At this point, it’s all myth and legend. I — and most of Clan Ventrue, for that matter — can recite my lineage back to the classical age, but you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone who knows it further.”

“This is Anarch land — and  _ my house, _ actually,” said Rubio indignantly. “I can spew whatever Noddist crap I want. I like that story better than us being some sort of parasite or freak of evolution, at least.”

“No,” said Monroe with a frown.

“Come on, you’re a blue blood, wouldn’t you rather think we’re descended from gods — or demons, at the very least—”

“No,” he said again, louder. “Who’s that?”

Rubio blinked but looked where Monroe pointed — at the laptop. The security feed showed the Denny’s restaurant. Dozens of drunk or high kids, eating cold pancakes and greasy breakfasts at the wee hours of the morning. The two sober adults stood out. They were dressed in jeans and hoodies, but too steady. One sat at the bar, a woman, with only an untouched water. A man walked through the public areas, investigating.

“Anything I should know?” asked Rubio. He stopped the movie and projected the feed onto the screen.

“The Ace of Spades sent the Society after us,” said Monroe. Surely Rubio had heard about Ashley destroying the Society, but the Ace was another matter.

“I don’t get surprised much,” grumbled Rubio. He looked through the cameras, trying to follow the adults’ movements. “I hate it.”

They had arrived less than an hour ago. Shortly after the coterie had come into the basement to watch the film. The parking lot was nearly packed with old and mid-model cars. Various states of dirt and grime. Some a little banged up or dented. It stood out, alongside his own.Black, SUV, excessively bulky, with windows as dark as his own. The bulk was recognisable as armor. Monroe knew two types to put such investment into their vehicles: kindred and government.

“If the Ace is after you, why aren’t you dead?” asked Rubio. 

Very good question.

Bones scraped and crunched as Jack returned to human form. “She sent the Society,” he said. “We sent back Ashley Swan.”

“I’m sure she’s terrified,” said Rubio sarcastically. 

“You know them?” asked Monroe hopefully. “Caitiff maybe, or thinbloods?” At Charlie’s raised hand, he scowled. “We’ll get you the dictionary later. This could go ugly.”

“Is there a back way out?” asked Charlie. Fear broke through her happiness.

The man left the women’s room, his fingers pressing the tiles, as though looking for a secret passageway. The woman spoke with a Latino man that Rubio had left in charge behind the bar.

“Never seen them,” said Rubio. He swept his arms across his haven. “You all can spend the day here, though. To leave, you have to cross the restaurant.”

Charlie flickered in and out of sight. Jack put a hand on her arm.

“Stop it,” he insisted. “You’re burning through blood.”

Blood. They had blood. Rubio had an ice chest full of packs, all of which were viable for Monroe. Monroe still had the pistol in his belt, Hawthorne a stake as well as a gun. He wouldn’t have put it past Jack to come armed as well. There was also the matter of Dawson, but with so many witnesses he couldn’t exactly order his private army to kidnap hunters.

Rubio zoomed in on the man. With this vantage, the concealed weapon was plain to see. The woman stood and showed the Latino man something in her wallet. He frowned, then picked up a phone by the register.

Rubio’s cell phone rang. “Alo.” The Spanish ran too quickly for Monroe to follow, but Rubio didn’t like what he heard. He hung up. His eyes and fangs had grown snake-like and they clicked against his teeth. “Lorenzo can’t get rid of them. It’s FBI. Apparently, Monroe, you’re accused of identity fraud.”

Monroe laughed. Ridiculous. To have operated on the line of legality for a century and finally attract attention for his mask? No. He knew someone who had contacts in the Pentagon, another who had deep fingers in the FBI itself. He would’ve been warned. This wasn’t about his mask.

“We can’t let them leave,” he said simply. “They aren’t FBI. They’re hunters.”

“We aren’t — You won’t kill them,” said Charlie, but even she didn't believe her words.

Monroe made a point of ignoring her. They might not leave them any choice. “Rubio, I’m sorry for bringing this to your door, I had no idea.”

“They weren’t following us,” burst Hawthorne. “I swear, I drove—”

Rubio raised his hands. “Cousins, your problems are mine. I can make them disappear. Say only the word.”

“There are a lot of innocents up there,” said Jack with a grim whistle.

Maybe a hundred. Almost none of them with all their senses.

“If they didn’t follow me, then they knew about you,” said Monroe. He nodded as he came to a conclusion. “We need to talk to them.”

“I thought you said most hunters were useless,” said Charlie. She managed to remain visible, but trembled.

“Mostly,” allowed Jack. “Sometimes, less useless.”

“The danger here isn’t to our lives,” said Monroe, though even he wasn’t fully convinced of that. “It is largely to the kine, the Masquerade, and our ability to operate in the mortal world. If they think my mask — Matt Monroe, owner of Blue Moon — is a criminal, I might need to fake my death and flee to — God, maybe Seattle.” 

The man finished his investigations and sat at an empty table for two, with only a coffee. His hoodie bunched in a way Monroe knew well. Both hunters were armed.

Monroe stood, passing a hand through his hair as he thought. “I can take one at a time with Dominate,” he said. “But the other will see and if they pull a gun, we’ll have bigger problems.”

Rubio gestured to Charlie. “Can she take one while you take the other?”

“I… don’t know Dominate,” she said meekly.

Rubio snorted.

“If they know what we are, why don’t we just ask to talk it out?” asked Jack. “They probably don’t want to shoot in public anymore than we do. Humans don’t like killing humans.”

Rubio waved a finger. “This is true.”

Monroe longed for Zari. Between the two of them, they could charm both hunters downstairs — or even to the legendary Brujah sacred place of the Denny’s parking lot. Alone, he had his doubts. She had better finish with her business soon.

Rubio’s phone rang again. His face darkened like the sun passing behind clouds.

Monroe turned to face the screen. The camera faced the woman’s back, but she had opened her jacket like a wing and spoke to the Latino man. He and Rubio exchanged frightened words.

“They aren’t FBI,” said Rubio with grim confidence. “She says, ‘You have three minutes to bring Monroe or I will shoot.’ I’m rather attached to my staff. Don’t let them get shot.”

“Don’t worry,” assured Hawthorne. “I get shot all the time.”

Reckless, stupid hunters.

Monroe slipped his jacket back on and moved to the door. To his surprise, Hawthorne was fast behind him.

“Your Dominate may not work on humans with strong wills,” said Monroe.

“It may also work.”

He stopped her on the stairs. He could smell the beer on her breath. Her jaw jutted at him in a rare act of defiance. It warmed his dead heart.

“You’re drunk,” he told her. “You were shot up only four days ago.”

“I feel better than ever.” She met his eyes relentlessly. “I’m not letting you walk into a trap of unwitting kine and hunters.”

Monroe grimaced but bit through his wrist and offered her the blood. “Take it,” he ordered. “Maybe it’ll sober you up some.”

No ghoul would complain about a gift of vitae and Hawthorne was no different. She brought the wrist to her lips and fed. When she had released it, he still felt her warm fingerprints on his skin. So fragile. It felt like hiding a wolf behind a bluejay.

They both attempted to make themselves presentable and appear less intoxicated. The imminent threat helped in this. The roucas fun of the Denny’s bled through the door. No one looked at them as they walked by. Everyone was wrapped up in their own private excitement.

Monroe made a bee-line for the man. He and Hawthorne sat opposite him. At once, Monroe flushed his face to imitate human complexion. The man’s eyes glittered and he returned his smile. Despite his sobriety, he fit in well with the other young people — UCLA hoodie, loose jeans, but steel-toed combat boots. He was older than most. Perhaps thirty-five, face lined before its time from stress. Monroe heightened his senses and was almost deafened by the din, but he confirmed it. The man’s heart beat excitedly, pounding strong. Human. Physically fit. 

“I hear you’re looking for me,” said Monroe.

“High and low,” the man said. He didn’t look him in the eye, just milimeters to the right. He knew enough to know Dominate required eye contact, but not enough to know a Ventrue’s command of Presence often superceded it.

“That’s not that unusual,” he said. He leaned forward and the hunter snapped back as far as he could. “I don’t like to flaunt it, but I’m a little bit of a celebrity around here.” He winked. “What do you want? A picture?”

“I have what I want.” The man’s eyes left his face entirely, to glance at the bar.

“Oh?”

“You. Out of your bat cave.”

Monroe laughed genially and threw an arm around Hawthorne’s back. His thumb brushed her shoulder and pointed, indicating for her to watch the bar. “You know, work just keeps piling up. Sometimes, I think it’ll take me forever to get through it.”

The man’s eyes glittered again. His lip pulled back in a hateful snarl. “You blanks, you’re all the same. Cruel. Bloodthirsty. Murderers. You think you’re gods.”

_ Blanks _ . Monroe knew a dozen euphemisms for kindred. That was not one of them.

He dropped his friendly demeanor and summoned a draw of Presence, but not allure. Fear. “Who’s to say that I’m not a god?” he whispered. “You?”

The man’s hatred turned to a barely contained primal terror. He couldn’t answer. Nothing changed in Monroe’s demeanor, but the man immediately perceived him not as a man, but as a creature of nightmare. His pupils were large and they shook as he tried to resist, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

Monroe stood and sat next to the hunter. “It might be that my time is up — with this face, this name, in Los Angeles, or even my life — but that doesn’t mean you will win.”

“Humanity will go on without you,” spat the man. “We will destroy your kind.”

Monroe let a slow smile spread across his face. “Humanity has never known civilization without us. We were in Rome, in Sparta, in Thebes, in Constantinople, in Varanasi. Now, London, New York, Singapore.” He reached a hand to stroke the man’s face, drinking in the fear. The man cringed at the touch but was helpless to move. The Beast sniffed, swelling in Monroe’s chest. Orphan. “Did we kill your parents?” he asked in a whisper. “Is that it? What makes you think you can hunt predators?”

Sweat glistened on his forehead. “Go to hell.”

“Such bravado.”

Fight and flight warred in his eyes and he lost, paralyzed in the face of what he hunted.

Briefly, for his own cruel entertainment, Monroe considered taking the man and ghouling him as Zari had done the inquisitor.

Monroe heard the footsteps first. 

“ _ Sit _ ,” commanded Hawthorne. The woman from the bar sat next to her.

Like her companion, the woman blended in but was a touch too old, her face stony as opposed to stoned. She fixed Monroe with a glare of utter hatred.

A sharp pain dug through his hand. Monroe blinked at it. In his moment of taking his eyes off the man, he had decided on fight and stabbed Monroe’s hand to the table. It was only a cheap laminate wood and the knife dug into it. Monroe had lost his grip on the man’s emotions. Fear replaced itself with anger. The chair scraped back. He was fast losing control of the situation.

Monroe made a snap decision. He wrenched the blade from his hand. It came away bloody. He tossed it to the ground. He altered a complete one-eighty on his Presence, invoking adoration instead of terror, and slung his arm behind the booth.

A group of college kids flashed him eager smiles.

“What’s up, guys? Hope y’all having a good night,” said Monroe.

“Dope,” said the guy. He caught the tense mood but Presence stunted him. “How’s it hanging?”

“To the right, you know what I’m saying.”

“This is a police matter—”

But the hunter was cut off with the chorus of howls. The exaggerated reaction startled the hunters.

“That’s what I’m talking about, dawg,” said the guy.

“Guys, from me to you,” said Monroe empathetically, leaning further over, “let’s all just be nice to each other, huh? Don’t be assholes. I don’t care if your girlfriend broke up with you or you’re drunk as a skunk. Don’t be like this fucker.”

“I’m a federal agent,” the man snapped. “This man is under arrest for identity fraud.”

Monroe snorted, even as he felt his blood chill. He turned to face the man, who had stood. “The fuck, man? I told you, leave me eat my pancakes in peace.”

Monroe found himself looking down the barrel of a very strange gun. It was clunky, overly heavy, and pointed at his forehead. If his stream had attracted a few eyes, it was nothing compared to this. Conversations petered out until all that was left was the gentle top-40 music.

The group behind him — vital, enthusiastic — grinned, confused and terrified of what they felt. 

The man took out his badge and flipped it open. “Russel Ians, Special Affairs Division.”

There was an authority to his voice that made Monroe take notice. It wasn’t a lie. Somehow, the American FBI had learned vampires existed. The Masquerade had fallen.

It couldn’t be. 

The woman sat next to Hawthorne had pulled her own strange gun and pointed it at Hawthorne’s head. It took everything Monroe had to not hiss in rage.

“ _ Drop the gun _ ,” he ordered.

The woman’s will was strong — iron in his grasp — and he gently squeezed. Her hand shook, the hard set determination replaced by fear as she slowly lowered the weapon.

“I don’t know what you think is happening,” he said, quickly falling back into his ruse of being a concerned citizen. “I’m telling you, you got the wrong guy. You can’t just harass people without a warrant.”

They wouldn’t shoot him. Not here. They had to know a normal bullet wouldn’t hurt him. But what sort of bullets would those guns shoot?

A guy at the next table stood and crawled at the edge of the gun’s line on Monroe. “Hey, hey,  _ hey _ , Mr Agent, sir,” he said. “He ain’t done nothing wrong, sir. Do you know Blue?” The guy turned to look at Monroe and smile. Perhaps Monroe had met him once or twice. Fed on him, maybe. The guy stepped between the gun and Monroe. He had no idea how much danger he was in.

“Until you show me a warrant or find some reason to arrest me now, I’m not leaving,” said Monroe firmly.

Humanity was his only cover. If the agent went on about vampires in public, he would be a laughing stock. Americans, as a whole, knew nothing. Whoever knew in the FBI, it was intimate.

A gun fired and a horrible thought crossed his mind as he feared Hawthorne had taken a bullet in her head. Then, the human guy screamed. By scent, there wasn’t enough blood. Not for a bullet. But there was fire. Just a hint of burnt flesh, burnt clothes.

“Jesus  _ fuck _ , what’s the matter with you?” demanded Monroe. “Someone, call 911.”

The guy twisted fell backwards, into the chair the agent had occupied. Monroe led him to the ground and ripped open the sweater. More cameras had come out. More cell phones. This was getting out of hand. Fast. 

The bullet had entered the stomach. “You’ll be fine,” promised Monroe. He grabbed the napkin dispenser and wadded it against the wound. Blood spilled into his hands. The kid was melodramatic, paling and whimpering. “Once the ambulance gets here, you’ll be just fine.”

“It hurts,” the guy whimpered.

“It’s a bullet, it’s not exactly going to feel like a kiss.”

Hawthorne knelt down with him and gave him a look as though to tell him off. “He’s just a kid,” she told him off. “Here, prop him up.”

Monroe stood and let her take the lead. As soon as he did, his face slammed into the chalky laminate of a table. Hot mortal hands wrenched his arms behind his back. Handcuffs clicked. Hawthorne stood, outraged, but when Monroe leveled a calm eye at her, she let herself be arrested.

A dozen glittering lights from a dozen phones followed them. Monroe kept up his tirade against the injustice, the police brutality. With a barely suppressed grin, he let the special agents lead himself and Hawthorne out of the Denny’s in handcuffs. He tensed in the cuffs and the metal bended.


	7. Blue Ribbons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Note: non-explicit torture during interrogation, mention of suicide (not followed through)

Charlie, Jack, and Rubio watched the entire encounter on the camera feeds. Charlie felt her skin crawl when Monroe saddled up next to the hunter. She could almost taste the fear. Jack tried to ran off when the guns got drawn, but Rubio grabbed his arm.

“Wait,” he promised. “Monroe has a handle on this.”

Apparently, he didn’t. A human got shot. Handcuffs slapped around him and Hawthorne and the Denny’s — silent, every patron staring with wide eyes — watched.

“We have to go help him,” she said. She realised with a jolt what she meant: break a vampire out of police custody.

“They can’t be FBI,” said Rubio, shaking his head. “FBI don’t know we exist. They’re hunters with fake badges. As soon as they get out — yes, yes, there we go.”

He pointed with a grin to the outdoor camera, the one that overlooked the parking lot. Monroe and Hawthorne had broken out of the handcuffs. Three men came out of Monroe’s second car. The scrap didn’t look like it would last long. Someone else left another car. A third hunter. He had a gun. The camera flared with a bright white light. Hawthorne was on the ground, splayed across the cement.

Rubio seemed to pale. “Alright, now we go help.”

The three of them ran from the basement, through the Denny’s, and out into the parking lot. The two hunters from inside had been handcuffed. Charlie averted her eyes but it was too late. Monroe had killed the third. Even though Charlie didn’t look at him, the bloody and broken body lingered in her peripheral vision. Monroe crouched on the ground, supporting Hawthorne, who struggled to sit up. He jerked at their approach.

The man Monroe had called Dawson, a ragged blond forty-something, had leapt out of the second car with two men in tow. “Sir, I’m sorry, next time we—”

“Dawson,  _ shut up _ ,” snapped Monroe with such venom that the man took several paces back. “Throw the surviving hunters into the back of their car.”

Dawson motioned to his men. “Sir, I’ll drive, I’m a helluva driver—”

Monroe silenced him with another look, but when he spoke it was deathly calm. “You three will wait here in case any others turn up. They are not FBI. Subdue and restrain them. Understand? Just nod.”

Dawson nodded mutely.

Monroe caught sight of Rubio and lost his frustration. He picked up Hawthorne. She winced. “Rubio, I’m sorry—”

Rubio told him to shut up. He took the wheel of the hunters’ car, Jack riding shotgun. Charlie sat in the back, Hawthorne’s legs crossed over her own. The car wasn’t as luxurious as Monroe’s, but the dashboard had been outfitted. A radio, a phone.

Charlie couldn’t tear her eyes off Hawthorne. After the attack in Beverly Glen, Hawthorne had lain across the backseat like this, her head in Monroe’s lap, her torso full of bullets as the seat filled with a lake of blood.

It wasn’t the same. Charlie could still smell the blood, but it wasn’t as strong. It was underscored by a rancid smell of burnt meat. Burnt flesh. Her face steadily drained of colour. Her hands curled loosely on her chest.

“She’s going to be okay, right?” asked Charlie. “We need to get her to a hospital.”

Hawthorne’s eyes fluttered. Her mouth set in a tight line. “I’ll be fine, miss.”

Monroe shook his head. His face was inhuman in its controlled anger. “I don’t know what kind of weapon they shot her with.”

“Where are we going, Monroe?” asked Rubio.

“Somewhere we can interrogate them. I’m sure you have a few ideas.”

“Interrogate,” repeated Charlie. The word lay heavy on her tongue. It didn’t seem real.

Monroe took it to be a judgment and fixed that anger on her. Briefly, she saw him as he was: a terrible monster, cruel and terrifying, the thing that legends and folklore were made of. Her teeth chattered and the Beast clamoured up her throat — then, it was gone.

“I understand you are still new,” he said without compassion, “but these hunters were intelligent, knowledgeable, and I do believe they are FBI.”

“You can’t be serious,” cried Rubio.

“I am.”

Hawthorne reached out a weak hand to Charlie, who accepted what dropped into her hand. The wrangled remnants of a bloody bullet.

“You… dug this out of you?” she whispered.

Hawthorne nodded and braced against the pain as the car jerked at a red light. “I can’t heal and leave it trapped. Infection. Corruption.”

Monroe shushed her. “Do you need more blood?”

“No, sir, I—”

Monroe did something very strange that Charlie watched warily. He brought his wrist to his lips and then gave it to Hawthorne. In spite of the pain, her entire body arched and she latched onto the wrist with acute desperation.

Monroe glanced at Charlie. His eyes softened and his anger gave way to worry. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But you must understand, this could be the start of something truly horrific. The greatest weakness of hunters has always been their disorganization. Society of Leopold chapters are isolated, few in number, and inefficient. Solitary hunters rarely know others of their vocation exist. If the FBI knows about us, there will be nowhere to hide.”

Charlie’s skin crawled at the naked words. “Where is Zari? Did they get her?”

Monroe grimaced. “She’s busy.”

Charlie’s own anger flared. “You already said that. Do you know something? Has the FBI been hunting us—”

“Hold,” he said. “Learn this and learn it well: kindred have secrets. We all do. We have dark chapters we aren’t proud of. We have vulnerabilities we want no one, not even our current allies, to know about. I will never ask for yours, just as I will never ask Zari or Jack when they have to attend other business.” 

Charlie thought of Bella and Dustin at home, waiting for her, and had to admit that was something she could be thankful for.

“I hope she’s okay,” said Jack quietly.

Monroe took his wrist from Hawthorne, who gasped for breath. Her lips were bloody and the look on her face pure ecstasy. 

“I’ll need your notebook, pen,” he said to Hawthorne. She dug through her pants with bloody fingers and handed them to him. “You rest, I’ll take care of this.”

“I’ll be fine, sir—”

“Shut up and do what I say, for once.” There was no malice in the voice, only a tired irony. Charlie had said the same thing to Dustin a hundred times, but the words felt darker.

_ I’ll take care of this _ .

The car came to a sudden stop and Rubio shut off the engine. They had stopped at the back of a dark industry supply warehouse. The road continued, over valleys and dales, and off in the distance was a neighbourhood. Only streetlights glowed. No one was awake. No one had any idea that a pack of vampires was down the hill with a federal agent. Rubio said he used it sometimes as a neutral zone to meet with contacts.

Contact. Charlie was fast learning to hate that word.

Monroe smiled grimly as they opened the boot, where Dawson had thrown the handcuffed hunters and their partner’s broken body. To their credit, the hunters showed no fear. The man spat at them when the door opened.

“Fucking monsters.”

Charlie felt like she couldn’t argue the point. No one else seemed to want to either.

Monroe picked through their jackets and threw out a pair of ID badges. “Might I introduce Special Agents Russel Ian and Paige Cordon.”

The badges folded out of their wallets. Charlie’s eyes were drawn to the frame opposite. Paige’s had a picture of a girl, no older than Bella, that bared a striking resemblance to Paige. A little daughter, a sister.

Jack handed Monroe the guns they had pulled off the hunters. They were clunky, oversized, and a grim steel. 

He raised one of them to Russel. “I need you to tell me everything you know about this weapon.”

Russel spat again.

“You just shot someone I care about,” said Monroe coldly. “Don’t make the rest of your life worse than it needs to be.”

Human hatred met inhuman anger. One blinked, the other did not. The silence that fell over them was stone hard. Heavy. A pin could’ve dropped in Anaheim and Charlie would’ve heard it. 

The ever-present static raised and Charlie rustled her fingers near her ear in an attempt to clear it. The static crackled into a voice.

_ \--pistol. _

Charlie narrowed her eyes and tried to rewind. It was like a CD player, a podcast track with no end and no beginning. Just, slide it backwards a little bit. Pluck that same Cobweb string. 

_ Raufoss pistol _ , the voice said obligingly.

“It’s called a Raufoss pistol,” she said, mighty pleased with herself.

Monroe nodded, accepting it. “So, then, what is a Raufoss pistol?”

“A pistol designed to fire high calibre Raufoss-model anti-personnel incendiary ammunition,” said… someone. It sure as hell wasn’t Charlie, but everyone turned to look at her.

Rubio punched her shoulder affectionately. “I like Malkavians.”

Monroe looked at the guns in a new light. “This is a gun that, when fired, creates a fire at the target,” he summarized. “It’s an anti-vampire gun. Kindred go up like, well, kindling.”

“If Doyle had hit you, you would’ve been dead, blank,” snarled Paige.

“Doyle?” asked Monroe, before understanding.

“My partner,” she shouted. “The man you just killed in cold blood—”

“He tried to kill me. He did shoot Hawthorne.”

“And now how many will you kill, huh? We should’ve just shot you in the restaurant.”

“Why didn’t you?” demanded Monroe. “You shot that guy — who, by the by, I have never met before.”

Russel’s snarl grew bitter. “Internal Affairs. They don’t want to cause mass panic. Maybe if there were only a few in there, we could’ve just came in, guns blazing, but Doyle said we couldn’t afford to lose you again.”

“You knew Hawthorne and that kid were human,” said Monroe in disbelief. “And, you just didn’t care?”

“This is a lot bigger than just one or two or fifty humans,” said Russel. “You think I care if I kill some evil twisted human who threw her lot in with vampires—”

Monroe lunged. Rubio stepped forward, stopping whatever terrible thing Monroe had been about to do. “Let me Embrace him,” said Rubio. “It’ll be easier that way. Less likely to die.”

“What do you — No, no,” said Charlie, but they weren’t listening to her.

“If he gets Setite blood, he could well just turn invisible and run off,” said Monroe.

“Yes, and Ventrue might give him Fortitude and then where would we be?”

“Count me out of this, guys,” said Jack. “Gangrel has Fortitude as well. And we don’t need him calling a flock of pigeons or some shit.”

“We aren’t turning him to torture him,” cried Charlie. She turned to Jack and Rubio. She couldn’t believe this. She thought maybe they were different. Less inhuman.

The men continued to argue, heedless, as the agent’s breath whistled through his teeth. Charlie grabbed Monroe and forced him away from the car. He stumbled, surprised she had touched him.

“ _ Shut up _ ,” she demanded. “Just, shut up. We don’t—Stop smiling like that.”

“Looks like you figured Dominate out all on your own, childe,” he said with that small proud smile.

Charlie itched to hit him. She took a deep breath, for all the good it did. “We can’t make him into a vampire.”

“He’s not leaving here alive,” said Monroe firmly. “What happens in between is up for debate.”

“Just Dominate him.”

“If I command him to  _ tell me everything you know about vampires _ ,” said Monroe with a raised eyebrow.

The command washed over Charlie. Her mouth opened and closed. “Everything I know about vampires.”

He grimaced. “Exactly. Now, move, please.”

He didn’t wait for an answer and just stepped around her.

“I’ve had enough,” said Monroe shortly. He dragged them both from the car. They landed on the gravel, hard. He set them up, back to back. There was no anger in his face anymore. It had been wiped, clean and calm. He raised Russel’s face with a rough hand to look him in the eye. “This is how it will go. I will ask a question. You will write the answer. She will speak the answer. If they are identical, I will be happy. If not, I will be less happy.”

“Go to hell.”

“ _ Bite off your tongue _ .”

“No, stop it,” screamed Paige desperately. “Russel! Listen to me.”

Charlie didn’t look away fast enough. Even so, she still heard it. The wet fleshy cutting, the muffled guttural screams deep in Russel’s throat. Eventually, something hit the gravel, and he sobbed, panting in the pain and fear. The scent of blood was thick in the air.

It wasn’t possible. Shouldn’t be possible. To bite off your own tongue? Charlie’s blood felt like ice.

“Monroe, let me do the honours,” said Rubio. His S’s stretched into a sound that was almost snake-like. His eyes and fangs had transformed again as he sat on the ground in front of the woman.

Rubio broke Russel’s handcuffs and Monroe pressed Hawthorne’s bloody notepad and pen into his fingers. Paige fought and managed to knock Russel over, but he only grunted. There was no fight left in him. Blood ran down from his mouth.

“You fucking psychopaths,” she hissed. Her eyes were drawn into Rubio and she began to tremble. She thrashed backwards. “No, no,  _ no. _ What — No, please. Don’t let him eat me.”

“You followed my friends, tried to kill them, and then shot one of my patrons,” snarled Rubio. His voice echoed in an unearthly chorus. “Why shouldn’t I?”

The pleading ran roughshod through Charlie’s heart. She had to turn away, but nothing could block out Paige’s begging. The powerful emotion vibrated through her, bouncing off the inside of her mind until it sounded like Rubio’s voice.

“You will like it,” promised Rubio. “You will beg for it and do my bidding, until who you were is just a bad dream.”

“ _ Please _ ,” screamed Paige. The word ripped from her throat. Salt from her tears mixed with Russel’s blood.

“Answer our questions and I might let you die.”

Charlie didn’t realise she was shaking until a steady arm wrapped around her shoulders. Jack. She turned into his strong chest and resisted the urge to cry.

“This isn’t right,” she whispered into his jacket.

“It’s fucking awful.”

“They’re right. We are monsters.”

Jack didn’t have an answer for that.

Question by agonizing question, Monroe and Rubio pulled the information out of Paige and Russel. Charlie couldn’t bare to take her eyes out of Jack’s jacket. She didn’t want to know how they encouraged her further.

“The bureau knows all about blanks,” she said. Her voice held none of the bravado it once had.

“How many know?” Monroe. “One division, one unit, the entire agency?”

“Everyone. They’ll come looking for me.” She screamed in terror. Wrong answer. “No one. No one. Only Special Affairs. There’s six teams. None of the bureau knows. Head of SA doesn’t want to start a mass panic — vampires, witches, werewolves — what would Americans think? They’d be fucking petrified.”

“How many in your team?” asked Monroe.

“Three.” The scream pierced the night. Her breath ran ragged. “ _ Three _ , I swear to God, there was only three of us. We’re not exactly well-funded.”

“How many vampires do you know about? How many targets?” Rubio.

“Four in the LA gang,” she said reluctantly. “Monroe. Shen. Bradley. Adeyemi.”

“The LA gang,” repeated Monroe with a chuckle. “That’s good news, at least. I understand how you knew about me. Maybe you even knew about Charlie. But you couldn’t have been following us. Greystone, Blue, Vesuvius, the Denny’s, the Glen. I’ve been a thousand places. You would’ve realised there are nearly three hundred licks here.”

“T-Three hundred?” This was a terror of a completely different sort.

“Yes, three hundred,” said Rubio. “Which means you were tipped. Who?”

The woman panted, every intake of breath shrilling as she held her silence.

“Who?” demanded Monroe. “Name, location you met, email address. Anything.”

“I don’t know.” She sobbed, her words straggling through the tears. “I don’t know. The director just gave us the folder.”

“Ace went to the FBI,” said Monroe. He cursed again. “And she found the division that hunts vampires.” The gravel crunched as one of them stood up. “Come on, Rubio, let me fix her memories.”

“What, no, oh god.”

The gravel shifted again. “What are you going to do?” asked Rubio with interest.

“Wipe it completely clean. She can disappear among LA’s homeless. I doubt the FBI will even be able to find her in that.”

“No, please, I would rather die.” Paige had stopped sobbing, her words hardening even as she whispered.

“Are you sure?” asked Monroe. His voice lost its rough edge. “You have three options, then. You can lose your memories and, quite likely, some degree of your mental stability and live on the streets here. Rubio can take you as a ghoul, which will be a good life. I can kill you. It won’t even hurt, I promise.”

Charlie tightened her grip on Jack, fighting the urge to yell at him. This wasn’t fair. She didn’t think she was a bad person, but in the last month she had accidentally killed someone, stalked through dark alleys to assault people, and passively been a bystander to torture and murder.

She ripped away from Jack. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Her anger was beyond words. “You — You — You’re exactly what they think we are,” she yelled. “Stop, just  _ stop _ .”

Monroe crouched on the ground to be eye-level to Paige. Paige. The woman in the sweater seemed to have aged ten years. Her dark hair was lank, sweaty, her lower lip had been split and trembled. She cowered next to the dead body of her teammate. Russel’s mutilated lips twisted into a frozen smile.

Rubio caught her before she got to Monroe. At least Rubio looked remorseful. His snake eyes blinked. “You think I enjoy this?” he asked. “Terrorizing people isn’t exactly my playbook, but we need to know they won’t come back.”

“Ace will just send another,” said Monroe wearily. He stood and faced them. His face was clean, expressionless. “We’ll need to vanish one night. God help me, maybe Seattle.”

“Fuck Seattle,” snarled Charlie. She pushed Rubio aside. “ _ That’s _ your concern, right now? Not that you just gleefully tortured some woman?”

“ ‘Gleeful’ isn’t the word I would use,” he said stiffly.

“You beat and used freaky fucking vampire magic on her. Damn lucky we weren’t near a lake. You would’ve fucking waterboarded her.”

“There was no alternative.”

“You’re so full of shit.”

“Charlotte, calm down.”

“Don’t you  _ dare _ use that name.”

“Ace is still after us.”

“Were you ever even human?”

“Please, calm down.”

“Or were you just born like this?”

“I’m trying to keep us alive.”

“You’re a psychopath—”

“I’m giving her a choice—”

“—how long did it take for you to be like this?”

“—she can do what she wants.”

Her anger was beyond words. Her face was hot, like fire, like ice. Anger and fear. Monroe kept talking. His lips moved. Sound came out. She couldn’t hear it. Awareness faded in and out. The only voice was the Beast. The static of the Cobweb blurred her vision. Armies of ghosts walked by before vanishing steps later: Native Americans on horseback, fancy men in tophats, gang kids tagging the building. The man-made concrete split and rivers of red flowed. Bloodstained grass grew from the cracks.

Charlie snarled.

This was it. The fate of vampires. Cold. Heartless. Sadistic. Murderers. Liars. Monroe faded behind a panel of glass, rimmed with a frame like a portrait. A mirror. Charlie struck out a fist. The glass shattered. She tackled him through the mirror portal.

Arms — vines, hissing rabid snakes — curled around her arms and pulled her. She hissed and they hissed back. Yellow-green eyes. She bit the snake and tasted blood. Tasty. Sour like Skittles. The snakes slithered away.

The vampire under her said something. Lips moved. Teeth. Fangs. Sounds and words left his mouth in a curling red ribbon. The ribbon became blue. Blue like silver. It frayed in the air. They wrapped around her, calm and still like the ocean, latticing into a basket. She swept it aside. Silver coins rolled down the concrete, clinking into the rivers of blood.

She hit him again. Again. Bones broke but blood did not flow. 

She needed blood. She was a monster. A violent spirit cast from heaven. An angel. A demon. A Childe of the First Murderer. It was her nature. To kill.

Blood flowed at last, but it crawled down her face like a line of army ants. 

She lowered her mouth to the neck. The veins and tendons, twirled together like a braid of wires. She meant to snarl. Menacing, scary, a creature of the night. She only whined.

The whine became a yelp of fear as the world turned upside down. It was a flash. A flash of darkness, of weight suddenly appeared. She was flat on her back, her wrists above her in gold chains, the neck too far away. Her own neck arched, jaws snapping. This was her destiny. Her future. She needed it. She needed it.

The mouth moved. The lips. But there were no fangs. Only white teeth. Normal teeth.

At this one detail, the world shifted back with a painful abruptness. It was Monroe. Blue button-down splattered with blood and dirt. No glass. No mirror. No ribbons. Only concern.

“—I am sorry, but I can’t let you bite me. I won’t. Listen, Charlie. Charlie. I understand. I know. I know you’re frightened. Hit me. I can take it. I likely deserve it. But you cannot bite me.”

Tears continued to crawl down Charlie’s face. She woke as if from a thousand year sleep of nightmares. “What… what’s happening?” Her voice felt raw, rough, like she hadn’t used it in years.

Relief passed through Monroe’s face and he moved off of her. “You frenzied,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think this would affect you so greatly.”

She reached for him. He gave her a hand to stand. She didn’t let go of it. “How can you do this?”

He opened and closed his mouth several times. His thumb stroked hers. “Because I was forced to. Then, I had to, to live. Then, I chose to, to make things easier.”

“And now?”

“Now, it doesn’t bother me.”

  
  


Paige chose to die. Monroe stuck his fangs in her and, aside from the brief flash of fear, she melted into it. Charlie had never seen another vampire feed. Paige’s face smoothed out, all the worry, and the terror. Her bruises and cuts looked so out of place. She looked serene. Peaceful. Dead to the world. Minutes passed in absolute silence. Rubio crossed himself as Paige turned a worrying shade of pale.

Monroe set Paige’s body next to her partners’ and stepped out of the trunk. He picked up the agents’ wallets and tucked them into his pants. 

Every step was a gunshot. She was dead. That was three hunters dead tonight. Hawthorne was shot. That kid at the Denny’s.

“Time to go,” said Jack.

Monroe nodded and shut the horrors of the trunk. “We’ll go back to the Denny’s. My car’s still there. I’ll see about Hawthorne driving the government vehicle…”

His voice drifted off. Charlie felt numb, staring at the darkened window and what lay behind. Paige had had a daughter. She was just doing her job. And they had proved it. Maybe something had died in them, in the black minutes of death before their sires had risen them. They deserved to be hunted.

She didn’t recognise Monroe stood in front of her until he touched her, to raise her chin to meet his eyes. She flinched.

“I know you’re not alright,” he said, “but I promise one day, you will be.”

“I don’t want to be. I don’t want this to be normal.”

“What would you have done? Truthfully.”

Charlie shook her head. Words died on her tongue. “I don’t know.”

“I’m open to suggestions.”

“I don’t know,” she said again. “Reason with them, maybe.”

Pity was the look Monroe gave her. “Human morality doesn’t transfer well to our existence,” he said softly. “One day, you will need to make your peace with what we are.”

“I would rather die,” she said plainly. “You might as well just suck me dry.” She slapped the veins in her neck, offering. Her grief threatened to overwhelm her but she met him headon. “Go on. Kill me.”

“Let’s get you home,” he said instead. He went back to the car.

For a moment, Charlie wanted to hit him again. “Then, I’ll just walk into the sun,” she called wildly after him. “That works, too, right?”

Monroe shut the door. “Anarch domains often have what Garcia calls the ‘sunrise problem’. Kindred Embrace freely, without consequence or thought, and their progeny end up waiting for dawn.” He turned back to her and Charlie was briefly surprised by the dark emotion in his face. Not rage, though, but sadness. “Please, don’t. I will help you.”

“I don’t want that help,” she said. The words hissed through her teeth. “I won’t be like you.”

“You don’t have to become me, but you will change one night.”


	8. Thinner than Water

Monroe was Ventrue. Ventrue thrived on meticulously crafted plans, judicious application of power, and a varied wealth of resources to safeguard that power. Monroe felt like he was in the dark. Useless. Less than useless. The Ace of Spades could come from every angle. She could have eyes in the police and who even knew what the FBI had?

The SUV yielded nothing they didn’t already know. The GPS had been wiped clean. A dossier of them with wildly inaccurate information of their abilities. More weapons, including machine-crafted wooden stakes, and more Raufoss pistols and ammunition. Rubio had gotten one for his trouble, but Jack left Monroe with the rest of them. Hawthorne had taken to carrying one at all times.

It was imperative Zari knew what had happened, but phones were dangerous. The two of them had a private meeting at his office in Blue Moon. Despite what had happened in Denny’s, he felt some degree of comfort with crowds of humans. The police were baffled. The FBI didn’t recognise any agents in LA. Only a couple of human nutjobs who vanished, their bones added to Orsay’s mortuary.

Zari was fearful, especially when Monroe mentioned they knew her surname. Even after taking her in after she had fled Ashley,  _ he _ hadn’t known that. Adeyemi. She had never volunteered it. He had never asked. Kindred kept secrets. He assured her with barren platitudes that it was taken care of, he had taken precautions, they were safe.

She trusted him and his protection absolutely. 

What had he done to gain such loyalty? 

As she left the office, Monroe’s hand went to his phone. Hawthorne lounged on the couch across the room. While her new bullet hole was all but healed, she moved gingerly.

“Amsterdam might be able to help,” she said. She knew better than to mention the kindred by name in an Anarch domain.

“Likely,” he admitted. Phones had never been entirely secure, but with the threat of the FBI, less so than ever. Reluctantly, he snapped pictures of the two FBI IDs. Paige Cordon. Russel Ian. He raised his eyes back to Hawthorne. “Up to a task?”

“Always.”

He threw her Cordon’s wallet. “She has a daughter. Make sure she’ll be looked after and our kind won’t find her. There’s a good chance this team has taken out kindred before.”

Hawthorne caught it and thumbed through the pictures. There was an address in Delaware on the drivers license, a phone number. Surely enough to go on. “I’ll be discreet,” she promised. She moved to a nearby computer and set to work.

Monroe found Amsterdam’s phone number, the one he contacted him with a week ago, and sent the pictures.

_ Ace sent me two agents. Special Affairs. _

There was no response. Monroe thumbed his way to a world clock and realised it was daylight in Amsterdam. It would be hours still.

Even as he stared at his phone, as though he could will Amsterdam to reply with good news, it rang. Before the number flashed on the screen, Monroe filled with hope. It was local, but unfamiliar. He answered it.

“Hello?”

There was water, waves. A rustle of clothing. “Hey, this Monroe, right? Silver Lake?” It was a young man. Frightened. Unsure. 

“Yes,” he said, frowning. “Who is this?”

“Copper.”

The former Syndicate, the one he spared and sent off with his business card.

“Ah, Copper,” said Monroe, forcing a smile into his voice as disappointment set in. “Nice to hear from you again. Worried I had scared you away.”

“I’m in Santa Monica.”

Weird place.

“I have no power in Santa Monica, but I can try to give the baron a good word for you.”

“No,” said Copper desperately. “It’s not that. It’s… fuck. I need some help and I didn’t know where else to turn. Got no one.”

“You got me,” offered Monroe, feeling Copper would make him regret that offer.

“I’m a thinblood,” admitted Copper. “Didn’t want to tell you, but this really blows.”

Monroe bet it did.

“It’s okay, that’s not your fault,” said Monroe. “What’s the problem? I said you could live in Silver Lake — even as a thinblood.”

“I got some thinblood friends. Some thickblood’s been filling their heads with bullshit,” said Copper. The words slipped from him fast like they were desperate to get out. “Says they can be thickbloods if they drink a thickblood dry. He’ll even make us some thickbloods so we can — fuck, man — so we can kill them. Tell me he’s full of shit, dawg.”

Hawthorne turned to him as he fell silent.

“Where are you in Santa Monica?” he demanded.

  
  


Monroe hadn’t expected a warm greeting when he turned up on Charlie’s front step.

“I’m not going  _ anywhere _ with you.” Her arms crossed and her eyes flashed.

Perhaps not that hostile, though. He had thought nine days might be enough to calm her anger towards him. Apparently not.

“You don’t have to,” he assured her. “But this is me admitting I was wrong. That doesn’t happen often. I handled Denny’s wrong, my hand was too firm. I am asking you to come with me to help me deal with this.”

Charlie threw an anxious look behind her and stepped onto the porch, closing the door behind her. “What’s happening in Santa Monica?”

“First, quick lesson,” he said. “Diablerie is the term we use to describe drinking another kindred dry. It includes the soul, or at least some semblance of sentience—”

She nodded, but her brow wrinkled. “Sure, vampire cannibalism.”

“—it’s also the most pleasurable act we can do. If the one you diablerize is more powerful — older, stronger command over Disciplines, lower Generation — you devour that. Thinbloods have no clan and are so high in Generation that Hawthrone could out-muscle them. Someone told this coterie in Santa Monica that they would Embrace humans for the thinbloods to diablerize, to lower their Generation to a point where they blood thickens.”

Charlie’s eyes searched his face. “And what are you going to do to them?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “If they remain thinbloods, they’ll continue to be shunned and weak. But I can’t let them become diablerists.”

Charlie grimaced. “Does Santa Monica have a baron or king or whatever?”

“Therese Voerman will kill them if she finds thinblood squatters, let alone finds out their plans,” said Monroe.

Charlie bit her lip. She didn’t want to come. In her home, she could pretend she was human. Of course, she hadn’t been a volunteer for the Embrace and Monroe knew he would have to drag her into the night. 

“I don’t like this,” she said at last. “This, playing God with people’s lives. It’s fucked.”

“It is,” he agreed. “If I do nothing tonight, five humans will be Embraced and killed and five kindred will taint their souls.”

“You need to do something,” she said. She wouldn’t meet his eye. Her body leaned towards the door, as though to go back inside.

“I do.”

“Let me get a jacket.”

The drive to Santa Monica was too short. Monroe wished he had had longer to think on things, but as they sunk deeper into Therese Voerman’s territory it felt like descending into a new world. The barony of Westside featured the croaking tent cities and people who the rest of the city forgot. Amidst the bright lights of the Voerman sisters’ investments along the coast, the kine lay as a ripe food source in their land of plenty. 

The bright ferris wheel of the nearby amusement park glowed like an all-seeing eye. The surf crashed against a rubbish-filled patch of beach below them. 

Copper waited for them on the pier. He was as Monroe remembered. A stocky white kid with a shock of red-brown hair. He paced in the shadow of an alley.

“Who the fuck are they?” he hissed. “I’m—”

“Relax,” Monroe told him. “My coterie. Zari, Jack, Charlie. And my retainer, Miss Hawthorne, you remember her.”

Copper nodded. The last time he met Hawthorne, she had killed the leader of his gang. Hawthorne slunk back into the car. Copper’s flickering eyes followed the SUV who seemed to prowl in the shadows — Dawson, but there was no need to put Copper at such ease.

“Jumpy little critter,” said Zari with an amused eye.

“You would be too, hiding from the sweeper.”

Charlie turned to Monroe, who didn’t like the answer he had to give.

“Barons sometimes have… muscle who they use to exterminate thinbloods,” he said.

“Why?” demanded Charlie. “Why would anyone kill thinbloods?”

“Apparently we’re a sign of the apocalypse.”

“A sign of the  _ what _ now?”

Copper shrugged. “I don’t really know. It’s not like anyone explained it. The Syndicate never knew I was thin, they just took me on. Heard about these guys and… fuck, yo. I’ll show you.”

Charlie laid a hand on Monroe. He never got used to that, the unsanctioned touching. “Okay, so, we got magic, werewolves, vampires as a biblical curse — is the apocalypse a real thing?”

“Noddist garbage,” he said casually. “Humans aren’t the only ones with religion. Most of ours revolves around the ancients, those kindred several millennia old and now sleeping. Some say that Caine is the First Vampire and will rise up to devour those unworthy. The ‘thinning of Caine’s Curse’ is an omen.”

“Is it real?” she pressed.

“Of course, it’s not,” said Jack. “It’s about as real as Revelations.”

“So, we got religious fundie vampires killing  _ other _ vampires over who’s getting Raptured,” said Charlie dryly. “Wow, it’s almost like we were human.”

“It’s not so much fundamentalists as it is scared kindred,” said Monroe generously. “Many kindred are Noddist to  _ some _ degree. After all, if I’m Ninth Generation, my sire was Eighth, who was First?”

Copper glared at Monroe. “So, tell me straight, he can’t make us full vamps. Seriously, it’s bullshit, right?”

“No, of course not,” scoffed Zari. “Diablerie lowers Generation. You’re not  _ half _ -vampires, you’re just very high Generation.”

Monroe felt his heart sink as hope rose in Copper’s eyes. “Really?”

“You’ll still need to kill someone in cold blood,” said Monroe harshly. “And then hope that you can overcome their soul, fighting with yours.”

But Copper didn’t seem to hear him. With much more enthusiasm, he led them down the pier onto the gritty beach. It wasn’t any beach used for swimming or surfing. No more than thirty feet long, trapped between the underside of the pier and the rising cliffs. Broken glass glittered like diamonds. The surf pushed salty driftwood and seaweed against the shores. Trash can fires crackled, but strategically placed. Thinbloods, who had no Beasts, trying to keep thickbloods out.

Copper shoved a fire aside as they made their way down the stairs. 

Cheap plastic lawn furniture sat under the pier. A handful of chairs, milkcrates, a pile of ragged duffel bags. Two thinbloods sat in the chairs and jumped at the coterie’s approach.

“It’s alright,” said Copper. “They’re friends. Where’s Julius?”

The man was so darkly tanned he barely looked kindred. He looked almost healthy. He wore only dirty jeans, his feet and chest bare. “Did Angel send them?” he asked. He had a thick Australian accent. “Julius went to work.”

The woman wore a tattered mustard jacket, her lank hair framing an otherwise pretty and healthy face. She settled down, but her eyes were fierce as she absorbed every detail of them.

“You guys have jobs?” asked Jack, surprised. “Don’t mean to sound like that, but—”

“We work for Angel,” snapped the Aussie. “What you here for?”

Monroe glanced to Charlie, who suddenly found herself in the center of attention.

“To talk you guys out of turning to cannibalism.” Her pronouncement was met with scattered laughs. “I’m Charlie,” she said.

The Australian sized her up, before glaring at the others. “E,” he said. “Like the letter. You must be new. Lucky you.”

“Not a lot of luck in it,” she said. She took a milkcrate and the thinbloods sat. “I didn’t exactly ask to be put the team of ‘only go out at dark and suck blood’.”

E nodded bitterly. “I was only here for the surf tournament. Lily, a girl I met here, turned me and left me, and now I’m trapped.”

“And Copper mentioned a sweeper?” she asked. “I still don’t get it, why do other vampires want to kill you guys?”

E shrugged. “Beats me. Maybe we’re the next and last step in vampire evolution. Thinbloods, we can’t blood bond, we can’t make ghouls. Hell, most of the time, the Embrace fails.”

“And you can eat food, go in the sun without bursting into flames, drink alcohol—” began Jack.

“This look like a party to you?” demanded E. “They aren’t exactly perks. And with the sunburn we get, it’s not like we’re  _ normal _ .”

“Who’s your Angel?” asked Monroe. “The kindred who will make you thickbloods?”

“Never met him,” said E. His shoulders tightened as he glared at Monroe. “What’s it to you?”

“Because this isn’t the answer to your problem,” said Monroe. “If he knows you were all thinbloods once, he’ll have that over you forever. Even when the black streaks leave your aura, he will  _ always _ know what you are now.”

E stood and squared up to him, easily dominating his vision. “You and your kind — you’ve driven us off for decades. You killed Eli and Dansi and Armando, and fuck knows who else. I never chose this,” he yelled in Monroe’s face. “Stop treating us like garbage.”

“No one chose this,” said Zari. She placed a hand on E’s chest and pushed him back.

“This is my one damned way out of this,” said E. “And I’m taking it. There’s no back, so we gotta go deeper. It’s the only way any of us’ll be safe, damn it.”

“What does Angel want for this ticket?” asked Jack. “You said you guys work for him. Doing what?”

“Fucking your mother’s slimy corpse,” snapped E. “I don’t care what Copper told you. Get off my beach.”

The woman jumped with a start and grabbed Charlie’s hand. “Forgive him,” she said in a thick Spanish accent.

Charlie jerked back, surprised. She exchanged a look with Monroe. “Whatever. Sure.”

“Don’t mind me,” she muttered to herself, ducking back to her chair. “I don’t know what I say.”

E patted her on the back. “Time you be going, if you’re gonna upset Rosa like that.”

They all turned back. Copper gave a ghost of a smile as they made their way back up onto the pier.

“E is something,” said Copper.

“He is what we made him,” said Jack with sympathy. “Things can’t be easy.”

“Will you do it?” asked Charlie. “Kill someone just to thicken your blood?”

Copper’s smile was more of a grimace. “No,” he said. “It’s why I called Monroe. This — This isn’t my game. This isn’t me, yo.”

Monroe would bet his last car that, had they left immediately, Copper would’ve just turned around and diablerized a fresh fledgling. The diablerie didn’t bother Monroe so much as the cold-blooded murder.

“Who’s the Angel?” asked Zari.

Copper looked back down the stairs, as though E could hear him. “I don’t know. Never met him. But…” He glanced back again. “1283 Baker’s Street,” he whispered. “Apartment 714.”

“Thank you,” said Charlie sincerely.

They slipped back into the car and gave Hawthorne the address. It was in a rough spot in town, one of many. A Gothic nightclub sporting a spiderweb motif crawled by. 

“We probably should go to Asylum.” Zari’s words echoed his thoughts.

“No,” said Monroe firmly. “You heard them. The Voermans have a sweeper. Besides, when were you all about respecting the barons?”

“Since I don’t want to make an enemy out of — weirdos,” she finished lamely. The Voerman sisters were both Malkavians, Embraced as twins over a century ago.

“Those girls are batty,” said Jack with a straight face, but the tension didn’t ease.

Hawthorne found street parking in front of a run down apartment building.

“Keep the engine running,” said Monroe. “We might need to leave urgently. Tell Dawson to stay here.”

She did as he said, the black SUVs standing out obnoxiously in the neighbourhood. Monroe racked his brains as they approached the building. He didn’t know every kindred in the city, but he knew several in West LA. He couldn’t think who would live here. A Nosferatu? Outcast Brujah? Truly, anyone involved in unsavoury activities. That did not narrow it down.

Regardless, the door was locked. Charlie ratted the iron bars, but the door was controlled by the comms. Someone would need to buzz them in.

“Feel like a little breaking and entering?” asked Jack with a flash of a white smile. He stepped into the black alley between buildings and a black crow emerged, soaring for a victory lap before landing on the roof.

“What a show off,” said Zari affectionately.

Zari took into the same alley, parkouring with blinding speed off the smallest ledge of bricks. Before they could crumble, she had already taken off to the next one. She grappled up onto the roof, a dark figure at the top offering her a hand.

Charlie looked to Monroe, doubtful. “Do I get superpowers like that?”

“We can teach you,” he promised. “Tonight, you have a choice. Piggyback or in my arms.”

At once, Charlie climbed onto his back, locking her arms around his neck. “I’m not exactly light,” she protested.

Monroe was tempted to throw her in the air to prove his point. The fall would barely bruise her. Regardless, he stepped into the alley, braced himself, and leapt. The force cracked the concrete under his shoes. It wasn’t enough to clear a small building, let alone an apartment block, but it got them to the fire escape twenty feet up. The extended jump felt like flying.

Charlie laughed in his ear. “God, I need to learn this one.”

“It’s only Potence,” he said. “Strength. Physical Disciplines are the easiest to learn.”

He leapt again, making substantially more noise than either Zari or Jack as their combined weight  _ thumped _ across fire escapes and balconies. Still, he felt Charlie’s exhilaration and wonder.

Zari was tapping her foot by the time they arrived. “Finally,” she groaned.

Charlie hopped off his back. Her curly ponytail had only grown wilder. “I need to get some more exciting superpowers.”

“Tell you what,” said Jack. He opened the roof access with a sharp jerk. The deadbolt broke. “I’ll teach you Protean and maybe you can turn into a bat and wolf one day — and you teach me Obfuscate.”

Charlie grinned. “That sounds amazing, but I don’t know how to teach you.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” said Jack. “Your blood knows.”

The apartment building looked as well maintained inside as outside. Paint peeled and the once-white ceilings had seen better days. This late, the hall was nearly silent and they felt obliged to continue the quiet.

Number 714.

The ghost of a smell rolled out from edges of the door. Monroe raised his senses and the scent intensified into a noxious fume. Acrid, like woodsmoke but nothing so banal. Chemicals. 

Jack took deep, noisy sniffs, wrinkling his nose deeper.

“Any ideas?”

He shook his head. “Someone cooking, captain.”

“What kinda food did  _ you _ eat as a human?” whispered Charlie.

“No one would cook meth in an apartment,” said Monroe with certainty. He was almost ashamed by the look of amazed disgust that Charlie gave him. All the goodwill from the piggyback — gone.

“So, are we gonna knock, try to buy?” asked Jack.

“We could just burst in,” said Zari fairly. “If the thinbloods haven’t met him, it’s probably just those two in there.”

“I have a better idea,” said Monroe.

  
  


This was absolutely not a better idea. Charlie’s veins felt like wires strangling her in their hunger, but she vanished from sight. This was a damned stupid idea. She should’ve told them. Stupid. She breathed slow, gentle. Remember what the Professor said:  _ forceful _ interaction with the physical world. But she wasn’t physical. She was a ghost, the invisible vampire of Los Angeles. 

She should get a cape.

Monroe and Zari waited down the hall, out of sight. She wanted to join them, but she had wanted no deaths. She stuck her hands in the pockets of her jacket, again. Jack, transformed into a fistful of leathery black bat, pushed his snout into her hand. She wasn’t alone. 

Charlie knocked gently. Once. Twice. This close, the smell was a thousand times worse. She blinked to discharge the fumes.

Footsteps. The door swung open and a guy — vampire, he had to be — stuck his head out. Short crop of hair and a grubby t-shirt and sweats. He gave a curious look around.

Jack burst out of her pocket, flapping into the apartment. The guy shouted and stumbled backwards as the bat flew around the ceiling. The door left open, Charlie slipped in and darted for the nearest corner. From her spot, her eyes drank the surroundings and she texted photos, her skin crawling with each one.

At first glance, she thought it  _ was  _ some kind of meth lab. Homebrew chemistry equipment and induction burners spread across six long folding tables. The air was thick with a white smoke. This was what Angel had them working on.

“M-M—” The guy swallowed hard and braced his hands. “Master, is… Are you?”

Jack chirped, flying in obnoxious circles and doing his best normal bat impression.

Julian shook his head, murmuring darkly to himself as he stood and hurried to find a stick.

_ Wtf is this _ , Charlie asked the group chat. Monroe and Zari hid in a dark corner down the hall, eyes glued to the screen.

_ Our kind tend to do crime to make money _ .

_ Yeah I got that. _

Charlie turned her attention back to the fight. Jack chirped wildly, evading the broom with almost too much grace. Then, he flew behind the chair that Charlie was hiding behind. She gasped as he dove into her jacket, seeking the invisibility.

Julian charged after him, sweeping the air. Charlie slid against the wall. She didn’t exist. The bristles moved inches from her face. The wind buffeted her hair.

She didn’t exist. She wasn’t real.

Julian moved the chair and Charlie sidestepped the other way. He looked right through her. Clear tawny eyes scoured and found nothing. Disgruntled, he shut the door, slid the chain in, and stalked back to the tables. He locked Charlie and Jack inside. 

Carefully, Charlie edged Jack into her pocket again. 

She didn’t exist.

Definitely needed that cape.

Charlie walked as though she belonged. She didn’t walk. She didn’t exist. The smell intensified again, suffocating her senses. Bitter, like licking a battery. If she didn’t breathe, it was alright. Didn’t breathe. The thought stopped her short. But she continued, sending every piece of minute information.

Garbage bags taped over the windows. The sun was blocked out. Sleeping bags in the corner. They stayed the day. The kitchen was spotless, untouched.

The other room, intended as a bedroom, was used for storage. There were stacks and stacks of plastic totes. A lot of soda cans, vape cartridges, fine powders, and even stranger things. Crystals that looked like laundry soap but might’ve been drugs for all Charlie knew. Those few things with labels looked to be English, but the words meant nothing: aqua fortis, fulminating silver, sweet vitriol. And blood. Lots of blood, packed away like leftovers.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t drugs.

It was so, so much worse than drugs. Charlie licked her lips and tried not to panic. She put her hand in her pocket. Jack chirped reassuringly. In a flash, he could be a fierce mountain lion, or a six-foot-five vampire with fangs and claws. She wasn’t alone.

_ How bad is this _ ? she asked desperately.  _ How fucked am I? _

The answer didn’t come for a long time.

_ I don’t know. _

Sparse off-white fluorescents sucked the life out of the inhuman lab. But the storeroom was dark. Here, the shadows were black. They moved. Shapes shifted. A blood-curdling shriek echoed from the street. Like a woman being murdered. Fleshy rips and tears. Sobbing. Jack didn’t react. Neither did Julian. It wasn’t real.

Felt real.

The sounds and pleading from the woman filled her head. Full of agony and fear and pain. Like Paige Cordon.

_ “Forgive him.”  _ Rosa’s words came back to her, spoken on the air, hot in her ear, vibrating in the Cobweb.

Not fucking likely.

She fell back into a corner and counted to ten.

She licked sweat off her lip. It tasted of blood.

She put her fingers to her phone again, but there was a new message.

_ Stay hidden. _

The woman outside silenced, as though it had never been there. In the sudden quiet, the pressure cookers hissed, pots bubbled and boiled.

The front door clicked open, straining against the chain. Copper rushed across the room to open the door. Annoyed noises. The door forced open, the chain broken.

Footsteps. Two, three pairs. Charlie peered out of the storage room. Monroe and Zari and, with them, Ashley. A vampire of silver marble and designer sunglasses, with no room left for compassion.

Charlie ducked back, as though he could see her.

“—frankly, I don’t care if you found my little operation,” he was saying airily. “Makes things flow more easily.” He snapped his fingers and his voice. “Thinblood, get out.”

“You’re — Are you — Delilah’s?” asked Julian, staring, horror-struck. 

“I’m Delilah’s sire,” said Ashley sweetly. He slipped his sunglasses to rest on a silver blonde crown. “Your little guardian angel. Now, I need to speak with these two. Alone. Get out.”

“Oh, God. Well. Sir.” Julian appeared to have only heard the first half. He bumped into a table leg. “This is — finished batch. We — Delilah was supposed to come over—”

“Go the fuck back to your beach,” said Ashley in a voice of forced calm, “and I will deal with you there.”

Julian had the sense to be scared. “Th-Thank you, sir.”

“I prefer ‘your dark lord and majesty’, but I suppose ‘sir’ is fine,” drawled Ashley as the door slammed.

Drawn out by Ashley’s voice, Jack crawled from her pocket. Little sharp wingtips clung to her jacket as he mountaineer-ed his way up to sit awkwardly on her shoulder. Bats were not designed for this. She bit back a laugh, but her humour was quickly beaten back.

“Found yourself some slaves?” asked Zari frostily.

“Yes, actually,” said Ashley. Chairs scraped across the floor. Charlie dared to peer around the corner. Plastic, folding chairs. Only Monroe and Ashley sat. Zari looked over the equipment. “Really, thinbloods are everywhere if you know where to look. Apparently, our little Thirteenth Gen fledglings just can’t keep it in their veins.”

“You don’t cook,” said Zari. “You buy from the cartels when their coyotes run into San Diego.”

Ashley shushed playfully. “Don’t give away all my secrets, darling.”

“What is all this?” asked Monroe.

Ashley offered his most sinister smile. “I call in my boon. Major.”

“Name it.”

“Kill the Voerman sisters.”

A pressure cooker’s timer went off, a short beep, before it settled into a keeping warm setting. Liquid dripped through tubing. Zari spun around to stare at Monroe.

“Choose one,” said Monroe at last. “I owe you one boon, not two. The sisters are both older than me, lower Generation, and Malkavian.”

Ashley snorted and sat back. “Whichever sister won’t be killed will make a move on me. They’re never seen together. No, thank you.”

“Do they know you want them dead?” asked Zari. 

“I’m not  _ that _ stupid,” he said. “But the Voermans don’t have many enemies. They’ll probe, kill Delilah, and I’ll be forced to Danse.”

“How do the thinbloods fit into your plan to become Baron of Westside?” asked Monroe. “That’s clearly what this is about.”

It was Ashley’s turn to not answer for a long while. “When I was in New Orleans, they called this the Promised Land,” he said. His voice had lost its flippancy, sounded almost melancholy. “As if you aren’t Damned here. Where kindred of all backgrounds could come for a piece of the pie. I get here. There’s no more pie. That pithy Revolutionary Council divided up LA for themselves, left everyone else to scamper in the streets.” He recovered himself and met Monroe in the eye. “I’m willing to do anything to get my piece. Even share.”

“You want a barony,” said Monroe.

“Not Westside in particular,” said Ashley. “I’m a simple man. I would take anything. Help me get one and we can split it.”

“Fifty-fifty,” asserted Monroe.

“Matt,” said Zari incredulously. “You can’t be serious.”

Ashley only smiled. “After all I’ve done for you, childe, can’t you trust me?”

“I know you well enough to know that you won’t keep that promise,” Zari shot back. “What changed? Going after a barony goes against everything you ever taught me.”

“Au contraire _. _ It is the summit of all I have taught you. Avoid politics. Make yourself indispensable. Amass favours, loyalties. What did you ever think it was for?”

“Safety,” spluttered Zari. “Avoiding the line of fire. Being able to take advantage of immortality, rather than dying in a gutter in five years.”

“The only way to guarantee safety is if play a different game,” he said simply. “Common folk bitch and kill over a block or two of turf. The barons make peace with each other because they know the only threats to their power are each other.  _ They _ don’t know how much power we have. They forget it was the masses they led what overthrew the Tower here.”

“You’re talking like a revolutionary, but your motivation is selfish,” said Monroe.

“I’m talking like Garcia,” said Ashley with a grin. “We’re all vampires at the end of the night. Vampires are selfish creatures.”

Monroe looked as though he would say something, but swallowed his words. He turned to Zari. “Trust  _ me _ ,” he said instead. “I know what I’m doing.”

Zari nodded. Something passed between them. It made Ashley’s smile curl downwards.

“I know your abilities well enough,” he said, all business. “You, Zari, and Jack. What of your little Charlie? What Disciplines does she favour? What are her strengths?”

Charlie wanted to punch her name out of his mouth.

“They are her business,” said Monroe simply. “If you want to make an alliance with my coterie, you make it with all of them. I speak for them, but not on their behalf.”

For the first time, Charlie thought he was on her side. It was a strange feeling, not one she liked at all. She could still see his fangs in Paige’s neck.

Ashley snarled delicately. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to have a little chat with your pet nutcase later. You know my childer, my abilities. Let me show you another.”

He sighed dramatically and crossed the room. Charlie slid back into the darkness of the storage room. Even if she breathed, she would’ve held her breath. He rifled through a box on the table, not five feet away.

She didn’t exist. Invisible. One of the shadows. 

Ashley took out a Tubberware of pills. Blood red. They rattled as he popped two and dry-swallowed. He offered the box to Monroe and Zari. Zari took a pair, trusting, but Monroe pushed it away.

Ashley cocked his head. “Well, that’s rude.”

He raised his hand and clenched it into a fist. 

Monroe’s eyes widened as he raised a foot off the ground. His fear and shock infected Charlie. This clearly wasn’t meant to happen. Telekinesis wasn’t a vampire power.

Ashley extended his arm and threw Monroe to the floor. There was a flash in him — a dark anger, maybe — but he thought better of it and laughed. Charlie couldn’t ever remember hearing him laugh. It sent a shiver down her spine.

“That’s… how did you figure this out?” he asked, picking himself off the floor.

Ashley preened. “I knew some thinbloods in New Orleans who worked magic. Alchemy, they called it. Thing is, most alchemy formulae need fresh vitae.”

“You became their willing donor,” said Zari. She experimented with her own ability as the pills took hold. She raised a pencil and it spun freely. “You and your childer.”

“Better than having thinbloods keep vampires staked in the closet,” Ashley quipped. “Just imagine the outcry.”

“We can’t create these — pills,” said Zari. “If we could, you wouldn’t keep thinbloods. You would just have your childer do it. Whatever the process is, it needs thinblood vitae or energy or Discipline.”

Ashley smiled. “Is there a question in there, my dear?”

“You lied to them,” said Monroe in a hard voice. “You’ll never make them thickbloods. If you did, you would lose your worker bees.”

Ashley took another pair of pills from another unmarked container. “It’s not a lie if they believe it.”

He leaned back and crossed his hands behind his head. Leaned back on  _ thin air _ . He levitated several feet off the ground, as though supported by an invisible chair.

“I get the picture,” said Monroe dryly. “What do the thinbloods know of what they’re doing?”

“They think they’re making drugs for thickbloods,” said Ashley irreverently. He raised an eyebrow. “See, was that a lie?”

“We should move them out of Santa Monica,” advised Monroe. “The Voermans’ sweeper—”

“Doesn’t exist,” finished Ashley. “A little fable.” He cocked his head to the side. “ ‘We’? I do like that, Monroe.”

“You’re enslaving them with fear,” said Zari with disgust. Charlie didn’t know why she sounded so surprised.

“Do you have a better solution?”

“Money,” gave Monroe. “Pay them for their work. Offer protection. Bring them back to the Barony of Angels, where Voerman won’t stake you for dawn for operating in her domain. Fear is cheap. All they need is someone who frightens them more than the sweeper or someone to promise them a life away.”

“Is that a threat?” asked Ashley mildly.

Monroe met his stare. “Not yet.”

Ashley shook his head, exasperated. “What do you want, Monroe? I thought you would appreciate an alliance, a barony. Aren’t y’all Ventrue all horny for power?”

“I appreciate the alliance but could go on without it,” said Monroe stiffly, “as I have for the last twenty years. I came here because a thinblood I offered protection to invoked it. He was frightened.”

“Good,” said Ashley irritably. “They’re  _ supposed  _ to be frightened.”

“Generally, when I offer protection, I offer it without threat of fear.”

“Oh,” said Ashley with a sly smile. “I see. I’m standing in the way of your sweet honour. Mother have mercy.” He stood again, but levitated a few inches off the ground, to meet Monroe’s eye. “Consider them a gift,” he said. “There are more thinbloods than where they came from.”

Charlie lurched and only just stopped herself from stepping forward. How much did this really matter if he was just going to go on and find a new batch of thinbloods to terrorize?

Monroe clearly considered it a victory. He shook Ashley’s hand again as he gathered up his finished pills. 

“I’ll remember what you said about sharing,” said Monroe sincerely.

“I’ll remember you still owe me,” said Ashley cheerfully.

“Oh, I know.” Monroe guided them to the door. Charlie almost missed it. Almost. He let his hand linger behind, his fingers beckoning sharply at her to follow.

Charlie stood and hurried as quietly as she could across the apartment. Ashley left first, a plastic tote under an arm, Monroe leading him by the shoulder like old friends. Zari lingered purposefully in the open doorway as she made small talk.

Charlie sucked herself thinner and slid by. She tugged on Monroe’s jacket as she passed. The exhilaration of invisibility made her brave. Ashley was less than a foot away. His smile was lazy but his eyes cold and distant. Purple eyes. They glowed in the dim of the hallway. 

Charlie flexed her fingers. One chance. Only one chance. Right in the nose, or in that mouth. If Monroe could barely dodge her in Blue Moon when he knew it was coming, she could hit him. Once.

Something stalled her. She slowly let the anger bleed out of her.

Zari shut the door. Farewells were bid. They made their way out into the street. Ashley turned down a corner and they parted ways. The clear night air almost cleansed the stench of the alchemy lab upstairs.

Monroe opened the backseat of his car for Zari and left it hanging open for Charlie to shut. As she did, visibility crashed over her. A black bat flew off her shoulder and transformed into Jack next to her. Monroe told Hawthorne to take them back to the beach.

“I felt that,” said Monroe. “You were going to attack Ashley.”

Zari folded her arms. “ _ Sometimes _ Ashley needs to be reminded—”

“Charlie,” he clarified.

Surprised, Zari turned to her. “Good on you.”

“Why didn’t you?” asked Monroe curiously.

“Because he didn’t know I could go invisible,” she said. She avoided his eye, scared of seeing pride or approval in them. “I didn’t need him to know what I can do, especially now.”

“I thought he was officially our ally?” asked Jack with a frown.

“For now,” said Monroe. “But eternity is a long time. Charlie did the right thing. Ashley likely suspects I’ve taught you extensive Dominate, rather than your blood guiding Auspex and Obfuscate.”

The words hung heavy on her. She didn’t want to do anything  _ right _ by him.

_ Forgive him _ .

Monroe leaned back and checked his phone. An emotion flickered over his face before he regained control. “Once we get back to the thinbloods, I’m going to offer them all safety in Silver Lake and we can work out payment for that — alchemy. I don’t like Ashley being the only one to have secret powers.”

“Safety in Silver Lake?” repeated Zari with a laugh. “We have the most famous vampire hunter on our ass. We can barely keep ourselves safe.”

“Not for long,” promised Monroe. “Dawson has been recruiting more. I’ll have enough men for Blue Moon, our tail, and security for your havens — if you want it.”

Jack raised a finger. “I’ll take one.”

“Me, too,” said Zari.

Charlie shook her head. If she couldn’t accept the Professor’s aid, she wouldn’t accept Monroe’s. Besides, the idea of  _ recruiting _ didn’t exactly sound rosey. 

Monroe gave her a strange look but nodded. “As you will.”

“I want to learn how to fight,” Charlie said with confidence. Her hands clenched. “Next time, when I’m invisible, I want to fucking deck that guy.”


	9. Not a Friend

The thinbloods didn’t want to clear off. They wanted to become thickbloods. Worse, was how they disregarded Monroe instantly. Charlie didn’t blame them. Something about the suit, the flat voice and eyes. It was unsettling. However, as Zari waited in the car and Jack fumbled for words, the thinbloods turned to her. She insisted on telling them the truth, how Ashley had used them and there was no sweeper. Eventually, she forced herself to lie and say that Ashley’s plan of having them diablerize was just a fantasy and they should forget about it. Without saying a word, she felt Monroe’s pride. It sickened her.

The thinbloods left, furious. Copper promised to come by. So did Rosa. The others were too pissed to be sure about anything. At her insistence, Monroe and Jack left her alone on the beach.

Charlie sat on a milk crate and watched the black ocean. The sound and smell crashed into her. A hundred thousand memories. Surfing, beach parties, birthdays. The not-so wild places of Los Angeles were more home to her than the house of ghosts. 

She took off her shoes and socks, digging her toes into the sand. It was cold. Should’ve been hard, sharp, uncomfortable. It was as cold as she was. Her skin refused the abrasions. 

She thought of the thinbloods, so desperate for more of this curse, and of Ashley and Monroe and the rest of the city’s monsters. The monster she was becoming. A liar, a thief. A murderer. Moving casually through illegal and supernatural drug labs.

It felt inevitable. As inevitable as her hunger. It threaded through her veins, stiffening them like writhing snakes. She hadn’t fed, aside from animal blood, in a week. It weighed on her. There were thousands of homeless here, but the immediate impulse horrified her. What made them more worthy of attacking and assaulting than hunting for some sexual predator or breaking into a mansion in Beverly Glen?

Convenience. It was convenient for the monster.

It felt like a fight, a losing battle.

_ We didn’t choose this _ . E’s voice came back to her. Sixteen years. And still, the desperation and rage wrung his voice raw.

_ Forgive him _ . If Charlie’s vision during frenzy was right, all she had to look forward to was… that. The end of the road.

Charlie screamed at the ocean. The sound didn’t bring an ache to her throat. Her lungs simply emptied of their air. She screamed again. And again. 

She tore off the rest of her clothes and dove into the frigid waters. It was late at night, late October. The chill should’ve stopped her heart. But it was three weeks too late. It was barely chilled to her dead body.

She swam hard against the current. Her body moved without exertion, effortlessly flawless. Perfect form, ceaseless strength. 

Charlie stopped, suddenly. Her form was reflex, born of thousands of hours of memory and practise. Her body moved in harmony, tilting her head to breathe with every stroke.

She didn’t breathe.

Charlie dove down and let herself sit on the ocean bed. Algae covered rocks slicked under her skin. The water filled her ears, consuming her thoughts. Silence. Perfect silence. Black, murky water. She didn’t exist. There was no heartbeat to echo in her ears, no stress in her lungs as the minutes passed by. The arms of the ocean stroked her with the current, buffeting her and whispering.

She could stay there forever. Should. If she hunted, she would hurt someone again. Kill. Again.

_ Eternity is a long time _ .

She opened her mouth and screamed. Bubbles left her lips, floating above. Her lungs ran out of air and she gave herself to the water.

Charlie didn’t know how long she stayed down there. Weary of despair, she made her way back to shore and found her clothes. She didn’t even have a towel. Stupid. 

“I was starting to get worried.”

The male voice spoke to an instinct and Charlie raised her jacket to cover herself.

Jack. He stepped down from the pier.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“We wanted to make sure you didn’t do anything stupid,” he said. His open face fell into concern. “Is it that hard to believe we care about you?”

“Yes,” she said sharply. “Turn around.”

He did as he was told and Charlie pulled on her clothes best she could. It wasn’t easy and she was quickly soaked.

“Vampires are selfish,” she said. “Why would you care?”

“Are you really quoting that guy as an authority on us?” asked Jack, hurt.

It was harder with Jack, to think of him as a monster. There was something so honest in his face, his smiles. She had known dudes like him, before.

“We took you in because Garcia would’ve let you flounder,” said Jack. “You aren’t a prisoner.” He shuffled. “So, uh, can I turn around again?”

Charlie found her spot on a milk crate again. “You can stay facing that way and start walking.”

Jack pulled up a seat beside her and didn’t say a word.

Charlie dug her fingers into the sand. It was craggy, filled with bits of glass.“I’m just… tired,” she said. “I’m tired of having to fight. I feel like I’m just supposed to turn into this evil, scheming — well, Ashley.”

Jack snorted. “If you want to talk morality stuff, Monroe’s probably your best bet.”

“No,” she said shortly.

The wind picked up, howling over the desolate beach.

“I think you’re probably right,” said Jack, at last. “We’re solo predators. We’re not supposed to be all friendly and happy-go-lucky. But, we were humans first and humans are… well, good, at least mostly. It’s not too late to say you aren’t going to be Ashley. Draw your line in the sand.” Proud of his metaphor, Jack scored a crooked line with his boot.

Inching closer and closer, the ocean waves stroked the beach.

“Lines in the sand mean nothing when the tide comes in,” said Charlie to herself.

“Then, you draw them again. Or, build a pier. Or a ferris wheel. Look, I’m not good with metaphors. Why don’t we go to Disneyland and I can teach you to fight in Space Mountain?”

Charlie let her head fall into her hands. Her face felt hot against her cold hands, what little blood she had rushing to the surface of the skin. “Can’t. I need… How do you deal with blood? How can you just accept you need to assault people?”

“It was hard,” said Jack. He took a deep breath. “So, it starts like this. I like ladies.”

“Yeah, same,” said Charlie ironically.

The waves crashed on the shore.

None of them knew that, she realised. Maybe if she hadn’t been turned into a bloodsucking monster, she would’ve been more concerned about coming out.

Jack raised a hand. “High five for liking ladies?”

Risking a smile, Charlie gave in. His hand clasped around hers and he grinned.

“Alright, so, ladies. When I was human, I liked them. Now, still do. So, I would pick them up at a bar, take them home, and feed. Feeding feels so good, they always thought I was a rockstar in bed.”

It still tickled her conscience. “That’s still, like, deception.”

“I wasn’t  _ lying _ .”

“Still deception.”

Jack waved his hands. “Not the point. Point is that, you’re right, I needed to balance it out. A lot of people could just use help. I realised it after I had my little black book, got to know the girls. Some needed a forward on their paycheque, or a present for their nephew’s birthday, or even just stupid stuff to make them happy — clothes, makeup, whatever. Monroe never asks where his money goes. Sometimes, though, they need a shoulder to cry on, a cheerleader to get them back on the right track. Go back to college, reconnect with your ex, get sober. Then, maybe, I’m not a parasite.”

Charlie traced patterns in the sand with her toes, thinking.

“What I’m saying is that we all have to find a way that we can live with ourselves,” said Jack. “Because starving is a bad way to go. Even animal blood, it won’t fill you for long.”

Cramps spasmed through Charlie’s muscles, as though to agree.

“My first instinct was to find people who earned it,” she admitted. “Like, I’d walk the streets around Sunset and wait to be assaulted. Didn’t take long.”

Jack nodded. “Scum of the earth, that works. You know, I once knew a lick who ate off the Sex Offender Registry like it was a takeout menu.”

Charlie snapped her head up. It was like a lightbulb went off. She scrambled for her phone. The government website wasn’t mobile friendly, but the stream of unsmiling faces and crimes ignited something in her.

_ Continuous sexual abuse of a child under 14. Rape by force. Human trafficking of minors. Possession with intent to sell obscene matter depicting minors. _

It listed all their addresses, their names, aliases, identifying marks.

He slapped her leg. “Come on, let’s get you something to eat.”

Something to eat.

They took a taxi to William E Smith’s house. From what she had gathered, he had been raping minors and then filming, advertising, and selling the results since 1982. His last offence had been two years ago. Cruelly, he lived in a normal-looking house on the edge of Santa Monica. The kind of house that coming of age movies took place in. The windows glowed behind curtains.

Jack showed her how to break into a house. Another thing to add to her growing list of illicit acts. It wasn’t clear if Smith lived alone, but if he did, she could just Dominate her way in next time, he said. This time, Jack pried off a screen on a kitchen window and it slid open with a squeak. When no one came, Charlie let the invisibility flow over her and she awkwardly crawled through. She closed the window behind her.

The house looked as normal inside as out. A bachelor pad, no decorations, really. Old furniture, old curtains. Nothing modern or new. A TV ran somewhere else.

She followed the sound. Late night local news. The living room was much the same. Dim. Seventies couch, matchy end tables and coffee table. Nothing on the walls. A ragged rug. Pizza boxes. Empty beer bottles.

William E Smith snored in his chair, an empty glass hanging loosely in his hand. Old. Scabby head, droopy face, sparse white hairs. His hands were curled like gnarled tree roots.

Charlie wasted no time. She thought about what those hands had done. She bit and drank. She knew she was visible. She didn’t care. It was anger and vengeance in the bite. The blood answered. It eased aches and pains she didn’t know she had. Her mind and vision sharpened. It whispered, screaming with the voices of his victims. There was a righteous fury in taking his blood, making him useful, making him pay for his crimes in a way that the justice system didn’t.

Satisfied, she released him. He kept snoring, mouth gaping open.

Charlie left by the front door, feeling, for the first time in three weeks, like maybe being a vampire wasn’t  _ too _ bad.

Her phone buzzed. Her heart sank as she read the text from Dustin.

_ When are you coming back? _

Bella. She had put her to bed — with her sister fighting her every step of the way — and had promised to watch a movie with Dustin. The thinbloods shouldn’t have taken that long.

“Did it not go well?” asked Jack, concerned.

“No, it went fine,” she said blandly. She pocketed the phone without answering the text. “Did you leave people behind?”

Jack stuffed his hands in his pockets. They turned off of Willaim E Smith’s driveway and onto the street, going nowhere in particular. “That’s a complicated question. Everyone’s got someone. Is it that guy? Dustin something?”

She nodded. The Beast had quieted, but she still knew what it wanted. It didn’t trust. Charlie had to. “How bad would it be if I told him about me?”

Jack’s mouth hardened. “You’ve seen how much Hawthorne gets shot. Humans around vamps gets messy fast.”

“She’s not… really human, though?” asked Charlie, a plan beginning to form. “What is she?”

“Ghoul,” said Jack with distaste. “A human fed vampire blood. Strong, fast, durable, and she’s been a ghoul long enough to gain some Disciplines.”

“How long is ‘long enough’?”

“Two hundred fifty years-ish. We had a quad-millennial birthday party for her a while ago.”

Charlie stopped walking.

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Jack darkly. He took a hold of her shoulders. “Don’t ghoul your friend. I told you about the blood bond. Fruity types call them the  _ chains of blood _ for a reason. Don’t be selfish enough to enslave your buddy. Let him go. Monroe will help you fake your death. He never needs to know.”

Charlie ground her teeth and met his eyes head-on.

Jack sighed and let go of her. “You told him. Don’t let anyone know. A lot take Masquerade breaches very seriously.”

“Seriously,” said Charlie, fearful, “what would Monroe do to Dustin if he knew?”

Jack shrugged. “Fix his memories. It might go ugly, leave him a bit soft, and then he would insist you never do it again.”

“That’s fucking awful.”

“Well, I won’t tell Monroe.” Jack smiled crookedly. “Eventually, Dustin will move on with his life. Job. Wife. Kids. Human friends. You’ll find your own place. Purpose. Coterie. Operations. Vampire friends.”

The picture he painted with a handful of words hurt more than Charlie thought it would. Of course, it was true. There was no way for this to end well. Maybe Dustin would have a night wedding, so she could come, but she would live on the outskirts of human life, never a part of it. What would happen to Bella?

She existed. But not for long.

  
  


Monroe considered and reconsidered the message from Amsterdam after they dropped Zari off at her townhouse. It wasn’t a trap. Amsterdam had too much dignity for such plays, especially when there was no need with Monroe.

_ Lay low. I will be there on 3 December. These agents belonged to FBI SA, Project Team Twilight. Four more agents exist. _

Names and photos from a government database followed. Three men, one woman. Monroe trusted more in Amsterdam’s intel than a confession extracted from Paige Cooper, even under duress.

Monroe’s eye was drawn to the first part of the message.  _ Lay low. I will be there on 3 December. _ Did he intend to help? Protect his asset? Amsterdam was the sort to recognise the threat their entire species faced by the FBI’s knowledge. If he knew, the Camarilla knew, or at least other power players among them.

The Anarchs flew blind. Many, like Monroe, basically wore neon signs proclaiming their agelessness and natures.

He read the message again to Hawthorne, who merely absorbed it.

“He’ll help us,” said Monroe with more confidence than he felt. “His asset is worthless if I’m dead.”

“Asset,” repeated Hawthorne with a grim smirk. “That’s one way to put it.”

“It saved our lives,” he reminded her.

“You could’ve let the debt die with Prince Garlotte and his childer.”

“I couldn’t have.” Monroe turned to her, but Hawthorne’s eyes stayed on the road. “I don’t regret it.”

Hawthorne drove smoothly, professionally. The walls went back up. She became his retainer, rather than his companion. This wasn’t a conversation she liked, then they cracked again.

“Pieterzoon will make you regret it,” she said softly. “You might owe Ashley once. He’ll want it paid off with something ugly. A hit, protecting him, nixing your half of ‘fifty-fifty’. Pieterzoon owns your soul. You will never be free of a life debt.”

She worried about him, he realised with a jolt. Probably rightfully. One night, he would sink himself into something that wouldn’t turn out well. That wasn’t tonight.

“All debts come due,” he said. He wanted to offer some degree of comfort, a soft word or gesture. His strength was her comfort, though. If he lived, weathered all storms, she would go on. Survival was paramount. Everything else was meaningless if they died.

The house welcomed them. Several hours of night remained. Perhaps he could disperse the stiff air between Hawthorne and him at Blue Moon. The Bad Bats’ live album needed post-production work.

He flipped on a light. It took him a moment to take in what he saw.

Hawthorne reacted on split instinct. She took her Raufoss pistol in hand and aimed.

The intruder was a young woman. Little older than Charlie. She appeared like a greyscale image: choppy white hair, white skin, black clothes. Cargo pants and t-shirt. Unarmed, but thickly muscled, built like an ox. She sat in Hawthorne’s chair with a clear command of the room, fingers splayed on the armrest like white spiders. 

“Who are you?” demanded Monroe. 

She stood. Smooth, like water. “I would say ‘a friend’,” she said, her voice hard and cold as ice, “but that’s not exactly true.”

“I don’t have any friends,” said Monroe.

“Don’t let me break your streak, then.” The intruder smiled.

Kindred. Absolutely. Not only by her unhealthy grey-white pallor, but there was a predatory cruelty to her.

“I assume you know who I am,” he said genially, “but let’s pretend.” He extended his hand. “Matthew Monroe.”

She glared at the hand. “Most leeches call me the Ace of Spades.  _ Drop your gun _ .”

The command whizzed by Monroe, the Dominate aching in its strength. Hawthorne, prepared to shoot at the name of the hunter, let the gun fall from her hands.

Ventrue. Tremere. Malkavian. Lasombra. The four main clans to possess Dominate.

No Ventrue would Embrace a vampire hunter. None. They would kill her. Ventrue did not take risks with humans. Childer were precious. Tremere thought the same. 

Malkavian? Perhaps they would Embrace her. Obfuscate. Auspex. All Disciplines useful to a hunter. Unlikely, though. The signature madness would hamper her legacy.

Lasombra. Masters of mind, body, and shadow. Dominate. Potence. Obtenebration. Enemies of Ventrue and the Camarilla since the fall of Rome. The bulk of Sabbat footsoldiers and leaders. Cunning, cruel, powerful. Sadistic to a fault. He could see it. A young, new vampire hunter, Embraced in vengeance, her attackers not knowing they gave her the tools to terrorize their kind for years. Now, decades. Centuries.

Monroe’s instinctive pity battled with the Ventrue Beast’s loathing. Loathing won out.

“Pick up your gun, keep it aimed,” said Monroe. His blood in Hawthorne’s veins, rather than Dominate, propelled the command. Hawthorne did as she was bade. He didn’t believe the Ace of Spades would face him without a trap planned, something to keep him from killing her immediately. “Don’t ever try to command my retainer, Lasombra,” he said.

Ace didn’t smile again. “After tonight, you don’t have to worry. Vampires only ever see me the once.” She kept prowling around the living room. Her eyes were a deep, dark black, eyelid to eyelid. Shadow.

“You didn’t come to kill me,” said Monroe. “Not ever. Not the Society, not with your friends in the FBI—”

“I don’t have friends either.”

“You have a body count a mile long,” said Monroe. Ace preened at the flattery, her Lasombra Beast unreasonably proud of her conquering and murder. “If you wanted me dead, I would be ash.”

The long shadows cast by the hallway light deepened into an absolute blackness. They grew edges, tendrils, twitching and snapping like some Lovecraftian horror. Monroe had seen Lasombra play like this. Normally before he destroyed them. He could kill her, he considered. She had come here for a reason, though. 

“I am no slave,” she said coarsely. “I do what I do because someone must. I am a killer only because what your kind did to me.”

“I respect that.”

Her eyes narrowed and she ceased her prowling. “When I come to a new city, I surveil. I find my target. I drink him dry. And I move on. You vampires, you poison every person you touch: your slaves in human society, those you feed from, all your ghouls and toys and human  _ pets _ .” She spat the word. “I let them live. They can find their way back.”

“Why did you feed me to the FBI, then?” he asked.

“I didn’t. Weren’t you  _ listening _ ?” Her voice coarsened to a growl.

The shadows in the entire front of the house turned black. Like an upturned bottle of ink. A thick fog. It crawled soundlessly over the walls and floors, shifting phases of blackness forming tendrils and gnashing maws. Like living in a new universe, populated by smoke and crushing blackness. No walls. No floor. No up, no down. They devoured his ankles, then knees as the tides rose. 

Monroe’s Beast, the Beast of Ventrue, knew this to be evil. Unnatural in the worst way. Icy cold teeth. He knew the strength of those tendrils, able to rip off limbs and heads, spear clean through bodies.

He lived because she wanted something. This was show, rage, a desperate attempt to reclaim control lost, not at her Embrace, but recently. Something had happened to break her streak.

If there was any time to not show weakness, it was in the face of certain death.

“I would kill you in a minute,” she said. He believed it. “But not like this. Not for him.”

“Who?”

As she continued, the shadows echoed her words. Rather than Rubio’s trick of perception, the creatures of shadowstuff truly spoke and mimicked her. 

“I came into town a month ago. Watched some local crime lords. Captured. Not the first time. I’m good about not letting my identity out. They brought me to their boss.” She shook her head, her upper lip twitching. “Forced his blood down my throat. Three nights. And I told him who I was. Told him everything.” Fangs, thick and curved, poked past her thin lips. “I’m not a slave. I did his dirty work. No more.”

Monroe nodded. He payed the shadows no heed. “Who sent you after me?”

“Why do you want to know?” Ace raised her chin.

Arrogant. Righteous to her cause. Independent. Trapped. Desperate.

“Because I want to kill the bastard that bonded you.”

The shadows crawled past his hips. Numbing cold. Monroe couldn’t feel his legs. Had he tried to move, Ace would have complete control. A simple thing, to snap his legs with the shadow, rip the gun from Hawthorne’s hand and shoot. Hawthorne only held the gun because Ace allowed her. 

It was only fear.

“Say his name.”

Someone. Someone desperate, without scruples, but no Anarch street thug would hire a hunter. Someone wanted him dead. Not just for Silver Lake. This was bigger, but that was impossible. Monroe might be of the Clan of Kings, but he had no real power in LA. Most of the city didn’t want to deal with him. Those who did stayed at arm’s length or weren’t important themselves.

The shadows threatened to devour him.

_ MacNeil should’ve fed you to the wolves when you came begging… Los Angeles needs no more of your kind’s influence _ .

“Salvador Garcia.”

The shadows snapped back like a light switch had been thrown. Still, deep black like the void, but they fell back to their natural shapes in his house.

“When I ran away, he notified the FBI,” said Ace. “In the last month, they’ve killed a hundred humans — that  _ I _ know of. Christopher Bennet, that boy in the Denny’s, was only the tip of the iceberg. In Long Beach, an SA unit got into a gunfight with some new vampires and massacred their still-human families.  _ Children _ .” She shouted the word and the shadows echoed. “I will not be responsible for the deaths of children.”

“Garcia’s death won’t change that,” he said without sympathy. “But it’ll mean something far more important to you. I’m sure no one told you. The blood bond only breaks with death. Yours or your master’s.”

“I have no master,” said Ace, but her voice lacked conviction. Her shoulders tensed.

Monroe put a hand to his chest and stepped forward. “I know what the bond feels like. Twice, now, an elder has manipulated me to be their slave. Twice, I was freed with their deaths. There is a way out.”

Ace flinched as he approached. Wary. Frightened like a cornered animal. Hope made people dangerous, but it was all she had to run on.

“I will work to break your bond. For both our sakes’,” he promised. “I give you my word. If you stop killing vampires.”

Ace laughed. Shrill, hysterical. The shadows danced with malice. “God, what makes you think I would agree to that?”

“You came here for a reason,” he said. “You didn’t come to warn me or complain about the FBI’s hunting practices. You’re blood bound to a vampire stronger and older than you and want out. You have nowhere else to go.”

The shadows stopped moving. Eerily still. Ace’s shoulders tensed. He had hit a nerve.

He pushed harder.

“You hate that you’re helpless and the only person who can help you is a vampire who, right now, is willing to overlook your history. Do you know what we call ourselves?  _ Kindred. _ Like it or not, you are one of us.”

Ace snarled and her eyes flicked to Hawthorne. “Girl,  _ shoot your master’s brains out _ .”

Monroe turned and caught Hawthorne’s hand. It shook with her strength of will. Sweat shone on her forehead. The gun discharged inches from his face. The shot echoed. Monroe flinched from the bright orange spark. The bullet chipped into the ceiling and smoked there with a gentle fire. 

Even as the immediate danger passed, Hawthorne’s eyes shone wide with terror. Monroe took the Raufoss pistol and felt her fear bleed into him as anger.

“Swallow your pride before you choke on it, Lasombra,” he said. “This is my haven.  _ Call off your shadows _ .”

Ace stopped smirking as she felt him reach out. She was young, stronger than she had any right to be from the diablerie she had committed, but not strong enough. Monroe strangled her will, ripped it clean and bared her soul. The shadow left her eyes. She sunk to her knees.

The shadows lightened, the infernal darkness fading.

Ace came to with the Raufoss pistol pressed to her forehead.

The look in her eyes was pure hatred.

“I will work with you,” he promised. “But I have two rules. Trust me. And never make me regret trusting you.” Monroe lowered the gun and offered her the grip. “This is a weapon the FBI developed to kill vampires in one shot. Take it.”

Ace’s face opened in amazement. She had told him what he needed. He didn’t need her anymore. She had expected a threat or execution. 

Not mercy.

She took the gun.

She considered it. The magazine slid out and then slammed back in.

Ace belted the gun and stood. “I hope you and Garcia kill each other.”

The Beast smiled through his lips.

Ace brushed past Monroe without another word and all but threw Hawthorne out of the way as she stormed out.

Monroe waited for her to stalk down the street and enter a strange car. He should’ve noted that when they came home. Hawthorne was shaken — as shaken as Hawthorne ever could be. Every muscle was taught as a violin, not for combat but to keep herself together.

“I know what I’m doing,” he said quietly.

“Yes, sir.” 

Garcia had begun to Danse with him, the closest thing to an authority in Los Angeles. Monroe walked even more dangerous territory than he had thought. Many Danse partners watched their empires die around them, their allies find new contacts, their businesses fail without cause, their childer die to accidents or catspaws, the power of destruction coming from everywhere at once. The petty vendettas — many lasting decades and centuries — was the prime reason he felt forced to leave his clan and sect. 

Anarchs didn’t play those games. At least, they pretended they didn’t.

But, he had an advantage many victims of the Danse didn’t have.

He knew his enemy’s name. In many ways, Monroe admired the man who barely contained the Anarchs’ chaos. Such a shame.

Monroe pulled out his phone and left Amsterdam only one message for him to read the following day.

_ I need to speak with you. _


	10. The Happiest Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Note: Damsel uses a racial slur against Jack (Chinese) in an ignorant white girl way to appear tough and insult him.

Charlie hadn’t been to Disneyland in almost two years, the longest since she had been a grumpy preteen and had decided the parks were lame. Everything had felt wrong. Meg would scream on every ride. Even the kiddie ones. Dustin was supposed to be eating enough churros to throw up. Instead, a tall vampire had loped beside her, excitedly pointing out rides. Jack’s enthusiasm was contagious. The parks had looked the same as ever in the night: a dizzying mix of light and sound, a patchwork of fantasy colonial and pioneer scenes. Even late, it was packed.

After the parks had officially closed at midnight, the vampires had had their fun.

Charlie turned over another card. Her mind was scarcely present. A bomb could go off and she wouldn’t hear it. Thirteen cards ringed a strange formation. A line of seven at the bottom. Two above. Four to the side.

Thirteen cards. She didn’t know why thirteen. It just felt right. Which meant the Cobweb had told her it.

For some unfathomable reason, when she had gotten home from Disneyland an hour before dawn, Charlie had dug out her box of shame from her closet. She had used it as a pillow when she slept in the closet in her first nights. There had to be a reason. Inside, was the remnants of her goth phase. Tarot cards, polished gem stones, incense, candles, string, a knife.

She needed to know if Damsel had been right. She needed to  _ Know _ .

Once the rides had begun to shut down after the fireworks, Jack and Charlie had lingered on Main Street. Crowds began to depart. The two of them had sat on the curb. She couldn’t remember smiling this much in weeks.

Some Disney employees had made sure they were okay or tried to usher them out, but Jack had learned a magic word. “Fortier,” the Baron of Anaheim. All the employees had respected the name and let them be, even as the parks emptied. She wondered how much they knew.

From a distant part of the park, a pair of vampires swaggered out. They had to be vampires. Jack had greeted the woman with a huge bear hug and introduced her as Damsel. She had violently red hair, like Orsay, but it was shoddy dye and chopped short. Her lips were the same colour. The other was a Black man with handsome tawny eyes and a firm handshake. Skelter.

Skelter smiled. “My boy here don’t like to remember me, sometimes.”

“You’re his sire?” asked Charlie stiffly. She edged to Jack’s side as she thought of her own sire.

“Nines’ word is law,” said Skelter. “He wants me to keep an eye on them, I’m gonna keep that eye.”

“We got a babysitter?” she asked, surprised.

“Wonder why,” said Damsel. She smirked. “Think fast, Jackie.”

Damsel moved fast, like Zari. Too fast to be seen. She punched, but hit only thin air. In Jack’s place, a crow soared high over Main Street. Damsel pulled herself up the colonial faces of the store, onto the roof, snarling.

Skelter watched them admiringly.

“You’re making sure they don’t kill each other?” asked Charlie with a grin.

“Oh, they won’t,” he said. “Nines worries. Damsel forgets herself, sometimes.”

Charlie turned over her fourth card. She focused, calm and meditative, lost to the physical world. She had felt compelled to anoint every card with her blood. Seemed important. Necessary. She felt anxious until it had been done. Then, peace.

The inverted Knight of Wands. Instability, reckless passion, anger. Her blood covered his face, smeared across the card. Damsel? Jack? Nines’ crew from Downtown? All of Los Angeles, a powder keg about to blow?

After Damsel and Jack had their fun, they took a trip backstage. The  _ Pirates _ ride, hanging around the animatronics. Damsel and Skelter had brought snake beer, though it didn’t last long. In spite of herself, Charlie felt herself laughing and goofing off like she hadn’t done in a year. So long as they didn’t break anything, the cameras would be shut off, the lights and music still on, and Fortier might even let them back. 

Tonight, Disneyland was their own private playground, a dark and secretive urban jungle.

The rides didn’t run; no employees were left to oversee them. Still, the rides were full of nooks and crannies. When Damsel suggested hide and seek, Jack almost lost it. Neither him or Charlie said anything. With her last bottle of beer, Charlie lounged behind Damsel as she counted to one hundred and turned on her invisibility. The redhead stormed around Thunder Mountain like a hurricane. It took her a damn long time, but eventually she had Jack and Skelter in tow. Charlie followed the trio at a leisurely pace, trying not to giggle.

More than an hour passed before Damsel finally surrendered. Charlie lifted Damsel’s beret and burst out laughing. Jack joined her.

Damsel snatched it back. “The fuck were you?”

“Malkavian,” said Charlie with pride. She vanished again.

Damsel growled. “That’s  _ not _ fair.”

Skelter chuckled. “If you wanted to play fair, you shouldn’t have played hide and seek with two bats and the Invisible Girl.”

Damsel didn’t like that much. Charlie took the first hit in the jaw and flew backwards, dizzy with the force of it. She slammed into the wall and slunk down. Damsel stood over her and lashed out — to hit her? to pick her up? — but Charlie slunk back and relaxed, sinking into Obfuscate.

Damsel’s hand missed her by inches. Charlie crawled back around her.

“Wanna talk  _ fair _ ?” asked Jack, outraged. “Don’t be hitting someone that can’t fight.”

Damsel waved a hand. “A bitch’s gotta learn.”

Charlie punched her. Hard. As hard as she could. Damsel’s head and the invisibility snapped back. Nose broke bloodlessly.

“Bitch wants to learn,” said Charlie, drunk on beer and her power.

Damsel’s smile was soft as sin. “Bitch’s gonna learn.”

Charlie turned over her fourth tarot card. She must’ve sat on her bed. The cards lay on something, but she couldn’t name it. Sheet? Blanket? Bedspread? She must’ve been home, but she couldn’t remember coming home. Dustin must’ve given her shit. She must’ve showered, changed, pulled the box of shame from her closet. The cards had blood on them. Why?

The Devil. Major Arcana. A horned goat, holding the chains of a brutalized pair, who still looked to the Devil with adoration. It symbolised downfall, falling to temptation. But the first person that came to mind was Monroe. Her mind or the Cobweb? Damsel’s definitely.

Damsel was a pretty cool chick. She was a bitch, but in a good way. Despite being a cute little thing, she hit like a dump truck. Fists, boots. Nothing off limits. Taunts, gentle insults, laughter. One of the food courts turned into their personal wrestling ring and classroom. Charlie learned. Not fast enough. Not nearly fast enough to beat the Brujah with her speed and strength, but good enough.

Good enough to deck Ashley.

Skelter laughed. A hard laugh from the gut that got the rest of them going. Clearly, Ashley had no love Downtown.

“That fucking shit-rose,” said Skelter, spitting at a animatronic. “Don’t get why any cape would hold up in the Free State.”

“You know why,” Damsel shot back. “Because the great Anarch Prince clears your history when you get here. Wipes it away like it don’t mean shit.”

Skelter glowered at Damsel. “You know our main man respects Garcia. You shouldn’t talk shit—”

“I’ll talk shit about who I want, when I want,” said Damsel. “MacNeil shouldn’t have left Garcia his barony.”

“What should MacNeil have done?”

“Should’ve given it to the people,” said Damsel. She marched past Charlie and got up in Skelter’s face. “The Free States were supposed to be about  _ anarchy _ , making our own futures, our own destinies, no one telling us what to do. Then come up with all these washed-up capes that even the fucking Camarilla don’t want anymore—”

“Look at the wastelands,” said Jack. By this point, they all shouted at each other and Charlie backed away from the charged air. “You want the rest of LA to look like the Valley? Or Sacramento?”

“Downtown runs just fine without a baron,” snapped Damsel. “We got all sorts of gangs, working together. Your kind, too.”

“Nines ain’t a baron? That’s news, probably to him too. He doesn’t let  _ anyone  _ live on his turf if they don’t pass his check,” said Jack. The aggression changed in his face, becoming less friendly. “And what are you talking about ‘my kind’? You meaning Ming’s gang in Chinatown?”

“Easy, feral,” shouted Damsel, shoving him back. “Meant Gangrel. Gangrel, Brujah, Caitiff—”

“You telling me it’s a coincidence that all the Chinese licks in Downtown are in Ming’s, and all the Japanese are in Koyo’s?”

“This ain’t about race. It’s about clans.”

“It’s a little about race,” said Jack with a curt smile. “Go on, ask. I know you wanna.”

Damsel drew herself up. “Why you let some white Ventrue bastard boss your feral Chink ass—”

Jack hit her. Damsel doubled over and a  _ woof _ of air left her lungs, but regained to block the next punch. They scrambled, a rolling tumbler of hissing fangs and punches. Charlie tensed, unsure where or how to get involved. 

Skelter stepped out of their way. “Rants get too personal, sometimes. It won’t be lethal.”

Sure enough, it took them a while, but Damsel spat out a cracked fang and bowed her head. Jack flexed his knuckles and the scrapes healed.

“You should know, Damsel, that was for the slur, not Monroe,” he said. 

“Should’ve stayed with Nines, boy,” said Skelter.

Jack pretended not to hear him. “Should I give Damsel another beat down? Maybe if I changed into a wolf she could have an excuse for why she lost.”

Damsel snarled, a sound not made in the throat but the gut. “If you want to be some cape’s lapdog, be my guest.”

“Monroe’s never asked me to kill off some gang because they had something he wanted,” said Jack. “Never gave me an order I didn’t wanna do. Took in this one.” Jack picked up Charlie by the neck of her jacket, lifted her clear off the ground.

“You guys don’t get it,” spat Damsel. “All those old fucks — those Ventrue and Camarilla fucks, hell even Garcia and Abrams — they don’t play games you and I understand. Their timetable is fifty years, a century, more. Got you right where they want you. Pawns and you don’t even know it.”

The Devil. Also, extraordinary force, caged by the inevitability of evil — which meant it wasn’t evil, only natural. Predators were not evil for killing to feed. They simply had their natures. Like vampires.

_ Hell is empty and all the devils are here _ .

A thought? A thought so clearly heard it sounded spoken? A voice from the Cobweb, a Malkavian communicating across the strands? Or just a remembered quote from Shakespeare.

Charlie sighed and asked the cards her question again. “Who can I trust?”

Four of cups. A man, sat under a tree, arms crossed in arrogant rebellion. A cup of opportunity, offered and denied. On the ground, three more cups denied. Missed opportunity, staunch independence.

Four, the number in the gang, including her.

The realisation shook her.

The cup offered to her tonight had been Jack’s, his friendship. Had she accepted it? Maybe. Probably not, though.

The card also symbolised disconnect. Unworthy of the earthly opportunities the suits offered. Cups for love. Wands for creativity. Coins for physical objects. Swords for reason.

Reason. Logic. A distant part of her realised she was about as far from reason and logic as it was humanely possible.

Then again, as a vampire, she had the ability to defy humane possibility.

Charlie liked Damsel. Less so after her and Jack’s spat, but the girl was eager to tell the world her opinions, even if they didn’t want to hear them. There was something in that to be admired and hated. Damsel of distress.

“The Anarch Prince and the so-called barons need to give the city back to the people. We’ll hang Garcia with his own words —  _ ‘in the pursuit of  _ libertas _ only may we find our true selves—’” _

“Give it a fucking rest,” snapped Skelter. “Before I clock you myself.”

“These soft-bellied, blunt-fanged shits would rather bow to cape and call it a cloak.”

“That doesn’t make any damn sense,” said Jack irritably. “Come on, Charlie, let’s do a little blood swap. Protean. Obfuscate.”

Damsel cackled. “Kinky. What, do I not get in on this?”

“Got something she wants?” asked Jack. “Her blood belongs in her veins.”

Jack took out a switch blade and opened his wrist. The flesh peeled apart obscenely and red glistened deep within. He handed Charlie the blade.

“Blood bonds?” asked Charlie, as though it were obvious, but she cut herself like he did. The beer dulled the pain.

“Once with friends. Twice for lovers. Thrice a slave,” said Skelter solemnly. “Caine’s own words.”

Jack groaned. “Yeah, yeah, Gehenna is coming. The end is neigh. Let me die with Obfuscate, at least. Your clan’s blood carries its Disciplines,” he told Charlie. “Bond’ll wear off in a couple of weeks. Mine’s got Protean — claws, night vision, bat, wolf.” He raised an eyebrow in taunt.

Charlie took his cut wrist and he took hers. They drank. It was glorious, better than human blood. A completely unique experience. Salt, copper, gamey, and, under it all, pressed through the static at the back of her mind, Jack. There was a candor in it. No lies, no secrets. He was exactly what he looked like. A good dude. The best of good dudes.

She didn’t want it to end, but it did. Her lips glistened with his blood. She felt it, the alien power of the blood. Disciplines of Clan Gangrel. Protean. Others, maybe. Two more, she figured. She embraced the power, threw herself headlong into it, and felt the synapses in her brain click together like Legos.

The dark night sky lightened as though daylight as colour bleached from the world. Night vision.

“Aw, man,” she groaned. “I wanted to be a wolf. Howl at the moon and shit.” She threw her head back. “ _ Awooooooo!” _

Jack had significantly more trouble. Like trying to start a car and hearing the rapid click clack of the engine. “Just, practice with it,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’ll teach you to grow claws.”

“Don’t sprain something, big boy,” said Damsel. “I can hear your brain overheating.”

Jack swiped a clawed hand. She ducked out of the way, laughing.

Charlie turned over the last two cards of her base row of seven. Not her base row. Just one section. Joined, somehow. Time would make things clear. Ten of Swords and the Hanged Man.

The Ten of Swords showed a prone man, stabbed in the back with ten crooked swords, as the sun rose over the horizon. The rising sun was meant to promise a future beyond the betrayal and crisis the card symbolised. To vampires, a rising sun was only salt in the wound. Staked for dawn by ten once-allies. Very bad card.  _ Forgive him _ .

The Hanged Man saw the world upside down, hung by the ankle from a tree. From his perspective, the world was anew, different, better. The ultimate martyrdom in pursuit of insight and new eyes. 

Charlie realised she hadn’t breathed or blinked in… might’ve been hours. The ache was psychosomatic, but she blinked anyway.

With a terrible excitement, she  _ saw _ it. Her eyes opened to a new world.  _ She  _ was the Hanged Man. The Cobweb. Strings. Dozens. Hundreds. Taunt and slack, connecting the cards, the gems, her clothes, and many, many more leading out the door and window. All of them connected to her hands, twined into ropes. She raised her palms. They trembled. Some strings connected to her joints, her nails. Other strings connected her hands together. They stretched, as though sewn deep into her skin.

The Cobweb  _ was real _ .

The supernatural bizarro psychic radio  _ was real _ . It didn’t torment her without reason. There was a purpose. It existed. Threads of destiny.

She could see the unturned over cards, through their backs. The four on the sides: Ace of Cups, Three of Swords, Nine of Coins, the Fool. The two at the top: the Emperor and the Knight of Wands. What did they mean? Their strings carried off and away, out of her vision. 

A distant muffled beeping broke her concentration. A vague part of her recognised the sound. A smart phone’s alarm. It shut off after a few rings.

Her mind grappled for the meaning of the sound. 

Footsteps.

Charlie analyzed her hands. The strings flowed across her skin, like veins. Arteries. A part of her, dipping and weaving in and out of her flesh. Shimmering and pulsing.

So pretty.

Jack had worried about her when they took a taxi back to her house. If something had gone wrong with his blood in her, but she promised she was fine. The static on the Cobweb was just high and loud. It did that. Malkavian thing, you know? He didn’t want to leave. She hadn’t said twenty words since. Most of them felt like an upended box of Scrabble in her mouth. 

Hummel. Kinder. Ivory. Grey. I’m grey. Grate. Tired.

Jack didn’t like it, but she seemed fine, if distracted. 

But now. Now, she had proof. Maybe only she could see it, but the Cobweb  _ meant _ something. It wasn’t just some affliction she had to deal with. It was a gift, a bonus, a compensation for becoming a vampire. She wasn’t just a vampire. She was  _ more _ .

She had a duty. A charge. She was privy to the secrets of the universe. She had to share them, to follow them. A string vibrated like it had been plucked and she grabbed it. It shook her hand violently like an electric shook. Her vision shuttered off and on.

A black town car, prowling like a panther. Maybe it was a panther. Wrought iron gates swinging like chains. A white house. A house of white and red… and blue. Dark sapphire blue woven into a basket of silver pieces, desperate to contain them but the weave was too thick. Pillars, rounded moulding of the house. Ivory and gold and the colour of dry blood. A piano. Tentative fingers on keys. A practiced scale. Fear and uncertainty, like a burnt penny held under the tongue. It was a test. She failed. Would fail. Had failed. And duty. Debt. Shame. Shame. Shame. Betrayal. Had betrayed. Would betray. He. Not she. He who?

She let go of the string. Her eyes filled with stars and she fought to get back to the vision, the Cobweb, back to the world she belonged, but sounds dragged her back to Earth.

More sounds. Too normal.

Footsteps. Water running. Shower. Humming music. Footsteps.

Each new sound threatened to bring her back to the world.

No. No. She had more. The Cobweb was full. Each strand had a spider connected to it. Something there to uncover. Like a gift. A present just for her. 

The door opened. Her door. She raised her eyes, as though seeing the room for the first time. A bedroom. Her bedroom. Was it hers? Mint green walls from her not-pink phase. A laptop on a desk. Clothes surrounding a laundry basket. Heavy drapes over the window. 

The door, open. A guy stood in the sudden bright light. Dark hair, curly but soaked. Surprised face. Handsome hooked nose, brooding eyes. Friendly smile. Should’ve landed himself a girl by now. But he didn’t. Human. Hot rod blood. Like gasoline. Rocket fuel.

Dustin Cohen.

“Okay, those are new, right?” he asked in a tired whisper. He shut the door and turned on the light. He called her something. Charlie. Right. She was Charlie.

Charlie hissed and he actually jumped. She scared him. She didn’t mean to. The sudden flash of light hurt, though. Her eyes, adjusted to the blackness of her room, blinked in blindness. Bit by bit, the sight returned to normal.

“The glowing red eyes?” he asked wearily. He sat on the edge of her bed. “What’s all this? Fortune telling? Is that new, too?”

One red string followed from his heart to her hands. It slackened at his approach. She tugged on it. Her fingers touched nothing physical, but she felt the static as a psychic flutter in the air. She pulled it, their strand. It tagged from within her skin like a staple. With it, came an image of a rumbled black suit, flowers, a mewling girl’s voice.

They were people. The strands were all people. Places and times they would be.

Charlie opened her mouth and hoped words would fall out. “Cobweb,” she said. Her voice was dusty and hoarse. “The great psychic web that connects the world and humanity — but there are spiders in it. Spiders I need to find.”

“Psychic spiders?” He smirked.

“No, no,  _ no _ .” She shook her head. He didn’t get it. He was only human. Why didn’t he get it? “The Cobweb — it’s real. The strands of destiny are tugging at me.  _ Real _ , Dust. Real.”

Dustin’s lips smiled, but his eyebrows creased in sympathy, in that secondhand embarrassment way. She couldn’t fathom why. “Sure, come on, get to bed. It’s almost daylight. Got a big day ahead — or night, I guess.”

Charlie hovered protectively over her cards. “No, no. I need to finish it. The strands — the red ones. I need to follow one. They’re  _ people _ .”

“You told me that the sun would kill you. Burn you up?”

“Destruction—”

“Get to bed,” he said. “Listen, you don’t seem well. You want me to come with you tomorrow night?”

Charlie blinked.

“The PT?””

It rang no bells.

“Parent Teacher night? With Bella?”

Bella. A little girl, heart-shaped face rounded by wild curls and a snotty grimace. Hers.

Charlie nodded. Sounded good. Correct.

  
  


Charlie wasn’t hungry. It felt like a first. Lots of humans, so many people, and she barely registered the massive scent of musk and blood. Sure, she appreciated it, but it wasn’t so tempting. Dustin would be proud of her. She made a note to tell him later.

Right now, of course, was not a good time. Parent Teacher night was full of people. Charlie knew most of the teachers who waited at their classrooms, but the procession of parents and little cliques of mom-and-dad friends were all new to her. Her and Dustin were clearly the youngest there.

Dustin took another cookie from the snack table in the gym. Charlie held an untouched styrofoam cup of coffee. The heat warmed her icy hands. The web of black, blue, and yellow lines on the gym floor drew her eye. No red. Every flash of red elicited a primal excitement, but it was nothing. She couldn’t seem to find the red strings again. Didn’t stop her from looking.

Dustin watched her. “You sure you’re alright?”

Charlie jerked at the voice but nodded absently.

“Hey.” Dustin’s tone grabbed her attention. “You sure? What was this morning?”

“What about it?”

“Is that just… something you do?” he asked.

“Kind of.”

“Wow.” Dustin snorted.

“I don’t need you to believe me,” said Charlie. “I believe me. That’s enough.”

Dustin grabbed another cookie. Crumbs flew at her. “Where did you go the other night?” he whispered. “And last week? You came home a fucking wreck. What’s going on with that gang?”

“I can trust them,” said Charlie. It was logical. Prophesied, even. It didn’t resonate with her heart, though. 

“Don’t sound like it.”

She did. Not so far that the strings would go taut, but enough. Sort of. Maybe. She trusted Monroe was enough of a criminal to be able to keep FBI off of them. She didn’t expect to be killed by any of the PTA types. Messy buns, salon nails, chunky highlights, church-goers dragging limp husbands. Maybe they  _ were _ hunters. Staking for Jesus.

Charlie smirked.

“What’s so funny?” he demanded.

“Nothing. What’s got your panties in a twist?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. I’m just waiting at your house, five nights a week, for you to remember me and Bella exist and—”

“I told you that you don’t need to,” she hissed. “I got that babysitter. Bella’s fine.”

“Sure, right, while you’re out draining virgins and meeting the vampire king of LA.”

Dustin snatched another cookie.

Charlie glared at him. “Is this all a joke to you? Because I’m not laughing.”

“Forget it,” he said shortly. “So, are you gonna pay me back?”

She stared. He had never kept a running tab on her, not even when she had missed rent. “For what?”

“Groceries.”

“ _ Groceries _ ?”

“Yeah. I got them. Bella was out of cereal, and fruit, and milk. Kid hasn’t eaten a vegetable in days. It was sixty-three dollars, but I’m gonna be nice and round down. Sixty.”

“Fine.” Charlie dug through her wallet and thrust three twenties into Dustin’s hands. “How was I supposed to know, man? I don’t eat.”

“ _ Excuse me _ ,” he drawled, “but you’ve eaten the last twenty years. Didn’t think a few weeks would change so damn much.”

Charlie groaned, irritated, but she couldn’t figure out what they were arguing about. “Not that much has changed and can you stop eating those damn cookies?”

Dustin deliberately chewed louder, crumbs flying with every word. “So long as I’m a card-carrying member of the human race, I can eat all the damn cookies I like. Want one? They’re delicious.”

He offered one, a soft white sugar cookie topped with a paste of sickly sweet icing and sprinkles in the school colours. When she didn’t take it, he moved to eat it. Charlie snatched it and crushed the cookie. It squeezed, soft, into the shape of her hand and she threw it in the garbage.

Dustin smiled meanly. “Wasn’t done with that.”

“You’re done now, aren’t you?”

“Charlotte Bradley? And Dustin Cohen? Oh, I just knew it was you. You look just like your brother.”

The two of them swallowed their argument and turned to face the yoga pants mom who Charlie couldn’t have named if her unlife depended on it. Smile and nails white like Chiclits. Charlie ran a hand over her face. It was hot, blood drawn to the skin.

“Hey, Mrs Peony,” said Dustin with a forced smile. “How’s it hanging?”

“I always knew you would find a good man,” said Mrs Peony in what she thought was an encouraging voice. “Young ones, these days, though. What grade is your kid in?”

“Still a lesbian,” said Charlie frostily. “I’m here for my sister. He’s just along for the ride.”

“Oh.” That one syllable said everything that Mrs Peony needed to say. Even so, she needed to elaborate. “Well, it’s not too late. You’re still young.”

Charlie set down her coffee cup on the table. The Beast purred delightedly with the humiliation. It had a point.

_ You don’t  _ need _ to be hungry to eat, you know. She had no right to say those things. And you can make her regret it. Crunchy blood thick with pumpkin spice latte. _

Dustin must’ve felt something wrong. “Oh, look at that,” he said loudly. “It’s our time block. Time to go. Come on, Charlie.”

Charlie let Dustin drag her through the halls. They passed a mudroom — their mudroom. Cubbies for coats and shoes, each labeled with a new piece of tape and a name in lopsided handwriting. Maggie. Evelyn. Daniel. Milo.

Charlotte ran a finger over the old hooks. It felt like stepping back in a time half-remembered and her anger melted. “Remember when we were in third grade and there was that flash rainshower during recess? We all were so dirty, Mr Isenor made us change into our gym clothes.”

“I remember,” said Dustin sharply.

At his tone, she glared but followed him.

Mrs Rhymer had been their second grade teacher, too. She hadn’t changed much. Chalky grey-white hair, cropped close, and crazy peacock glasses. Brightly patterned skirts. Tonight, it was cat-themed. Her classroom looked like it was built for hobbits. Had they really been that small?

Mrs Rhymer stood and smiled at them. “Charlie and Dustin, wowza,” she said. “Seems like only yesterday I had you two doing a presentation on puffins.”

“Like penguins, but cooler,” he said.

“You two got full marks for it,” said Mrs Rhymer.

They sat beside her desk, at more appropriately sized chairs.

“Do you remember everything?” asked Charlie with a grin. Despite not talking to the woman in ten years, it felt kind of cool that she remembered them.

“Almost everything,” she said with a wink.

“How did Bella’s cool animal presentation go?” asked Dustin.

As soon as Bella was brought up, Mrs Rhymer’s effervescent smile dimmed. “How are things going at home?” she asked kindly.

Charlie sat back, on the defence. “Fine.”

“Often times, problems at school have roots at home,” said Mrs Rhymer, “and I hope we can find a solution for Bella. She’s a really bright kid, but…”

But.

But.

And on Mrs Rhymer went. Bella had been withdrawn, stopped hanging out with her friends. She didn’t play at recess. She ate lunch by herself, when she did eat at all. She was pushy and rude when assigned to group projects. She didn’t pick fights, but arguments. She yelled and fought like a wildcat when it came to timeout or discipline. She refused to answer questions in class. Her grades had slipped.

“There was also the poster,” said Mrs Rhymer after a pause.

She produced a neon green posterboard, covered with pasted on pictures of crocodiles and factoids. Bella’s cool animal project. A nasty crocodile, full of sharp little teeth and red eyes, ate a female stick figure with scribbles of curly hair.

“I had a talk with her after, asking if the crocodile was her,” said the teacher. She sighed. Charlie knew what was coming. “She said it was her sister. We’ve offered support at the school. Last year, after the accident, counselling after school. For a while, things went better, but lately there’s been a turn for the worse.”

Charlie.  _ She  _ was the turn for the worst. Her Embrace.

She could turn invisible, order people to do things, and glimpse beyond the veil of the universe. What good was it if she couldn’t help Bella?

Even if she had been human, would Charlie have been any use? She wasn’t a mother. Without Monroe’s funding, she still would’ve worked three jobs and had no time to spend with Bella. The gnawing longing for a time that didn’t exist ate at her. A time when they were happy.

Charlie had grown up with a parent. Mom always picked her up at school, made her a snack, and insisted she did her homework. She had been there at soccer games, cheering her on. Always, she had made a serious effort to be hip with her interests, even when she started collecting weird rocks and drawing Viking runes on them. Mom had the luxuries of time, money, and experience.

Charlie couldn’t give Bella any of that.

“There hasn’t been anything new,” said Dustin. “But she has been acting out at home. I thought it was the kids at school.”

She had been acting out at home? Charlie turned to look at him, confused, then ashamed for her confusion. 

Mrs Rhymer shook her head. “Some of them are a little mean, but I can handle them. Bella’s attitude is new, though.”

“I’m sorry,” said Charlie softly. The words burned coming up.

Mrs Rhymer reached out a hand. “There are plenty of programs to take advantage of that could provide her with structure and support. There’s a Boys & Girls Club after school, that would set her up with a mentor from Fredrickson Middle School. There’s also…”

Charlie slunk lower with every offer, nodding meekly. She felt like a failure.

Mrs Rhymer had prepared a sheet with the programs’ details. “I know this can’t have been easy, Charlie,” she said.

Charlie took the sheet.

Satisfied that they had dealt with her student, Mrs Rhymer smiled again. “Tell me, what’s been going on with your lives?”

Dustin went on and on. UCLA, zoology program. He still worked at Target two nights a week and weekends. Minimum wage wasn’t fun, but he still lived at home. Los Angeles rent was nuts. He volunteered at the synagogue on Chester twice a month. 

He talked so Charlie didn’t have to, she knew. Him and Mrs Rhymer had known Charlie since elementary school. Around her, parents waited and talked with teachers in other rooms. Little cliques and social groups, so like high school it was vomit-inducing. So petty, concerned with sports, TV shows, the weather. Never had Charlie felt so alone.

She did not belong to this word. She could hear the blood pumping in their veins. She would live, untouched, a perpetual twenty-year-old girl as the kids in Mrs Rhymer’s class — as Bella — grew up, moved on to Fredrickson Middle School, Saint Mary’s High, and then college. Marriage. Friends. Work. They would grow old. Die.

Charlie was not human. She had known it. Never had she understood what it meant.

The full cruelty of what her sire had done to her crushed her unbeating heart.


	11. Thanksgiving

Charlie spent every waking moment at Blue Moon, hiding from her problems. She left early in the evening, calling the babysitter to come by and take care of Bella before Dustin came around, and came home shortly before dawn. In between, she threw herself head-long into having fun. Jack made it easy. The music — a blended smoothie of indie rock, pop, new wave, and metal — wasn’t her thing, but the sensory overload of lights and bodies carried away the rest of the world.

When the music became too much, she disappeared downstairs. There were never loads of other vampires around, aside from Zari and Jack most of the time. Monroe made the odd appearance, but he was always busy.

Zari became wonderful company. Witty, sharp, and beautiful, she embodied her zine and eagerly shared old editions with Charlie. Together, they wrote her introduction article. Zari wouldn’t let her at any of the other articles. “Not yet,” she would say with a hopeful fanged smile.

A series of flatscreen TVs had been installed and Jack continued the vampire movie marathon they had begun at Rubio’s. It felt like forever ago, but it had only been a few weeks. They saw no more of hunters or guns. Life was almost peaceful.

Charlie’s phone buzzed again. Another missed call. Dustin. She turned her phone on to silent and let Jack throw his arm around her.

The elevator dinged.

“Yo, Hawthorne,” yelled Jack, splitting Charlie’s eardrum. “Sword time?”

Hawthorne bowed with a distinct flourish. As always, she was strangely prim and proper, in all black with not a hair out of place in her coiffed waves, like some fifties movie star. “If you break me, Mr Monroe  _ will _ kill you.”

“Yeah, yeah, I died once. Maybe I can’t again.” Jack leapt to his feet, taking off his leather jacket. He handed her a sword gleefully.

“You guys are nuts,” said Charlie. She crossed her legs on the couch and prepared for the show. Only Copper and the quiet Rosa hung around. They hung in the back corner, watching with a mix of excitement and fear.

Hawthorne tested the balance. They were legit knights-and-dragons medieval swords. Jack had apparently been nagging Hawthorne to duel with him for months, but it was hell to drag her away from Monroe.

They cleared away chairs and tables and bowed — Hawthorne insisted — before the melodramatic clash of steel rang out. For several moments, they would circle each other, only to strike with a flurry and back up again. Too fast, too strong. The swords would hit with such strength sparks flew. Even with Charlie’s lack of knowledge, it was clear Jack was outmatched. Hawthorne moved like water, calm and controlled, as he chased her.

“You’re not sober,” accused Jack. “This isn’t a fair fight.”

“Then, why are you losing?” Hawthorne shot back, dodging gracefully out of the way.

“ _ When _ I win, I get a drink from you. Don’t leave me hanging sober.”

Hawthorne leaned back to avoid Jack’s sword. Once. Twice. “There are approximately two hundred seventy-three kine upstairs. Not one is sober. Is biting me really worth Mr Monroe’s ire?”

Jack took a hit and bared his teeth in a smile. “Could be.”

Hawthorne struck and ripped open Jack’s shirt, slicing through a flap of skin and flesh.

Charlie rolled her eyes.

“At least they’re learning something useful and not throwing each other into walls,” said Zari with a sniff. Despite her clear disapproval, she smiled at the duel.

“How’s December’s issue looking?”

Zari’s smile flickered. “I’ve been thinking,” she said hesitatingly, “maybe you could write something. For January.”

Charlie swelled with pride. “Oh, God, that sounds amazing. I have so many ideas. I’d love—”

Zari held up and hand and laughed. “Slow down. It’s a lot of work, but I think it’s about time you do some networking around here. The Professor will be easy to talk to. I always do a piece on his monthly classes. Tell him I sent you.”

Charlie nodded eagerly. “Of course. I’d love to.”

“I would pay you but, I mean, my money is your money is Monroe’s money, isn’t it?” asked Zari with a wry smile. “Do you want anything else?”

“Honestly,” she said, “I’ve been getting a bit restless. It’d be nice to look forward to something. How’s December?”

Zari’s smile softened. “I know how you feel.” She sighed contentedly and closed her laptop. “December’s done. Typical Christmas and New Years’ parties. Nothing too hot. I just need to get this over to Ashley and he’ll handle printing and distribution.”

Charlie bit her lip.

“Go on, girl. Say what you gotta. You’re among friends.”

Friends. The word sent a jolt through her.

“I get that he took you in, but I don’t get how you can trust someone who’s so twisted,” said Charlie. She remembered the first and, as far as Ashley knew, only time she had met him. “You called him ‘a good guy’.”

Zari leaned her head in her hand and gazed at Charlie in thought. Charlie felt herself blush and turn away. “I only meant loyal,” she said. “Ashley’s loyal to those loyal to him. Like Monroe. Knowing who to trust means a lot among us.”

“Why are you not with him anymore?”

“I wasn’t loyal, as he saw it,” Zari confessed. She stroked her laptop and clutched it close. “After almost thirty years, I questioned him, probed a little too deep. I didn’t like what I saw. We came to the conclusion it was best I leave, while we were still on civil terms. I had interviewed Monroe when he first came to LA in ’03. We got along well, which was a little strange.” She chuckled and Charlie felt herself laugh, too.

“What was so strange about it? That he doesn’t get along with anyone?”

Zari laughed, but gradually sobered as she thought about it. “I’m pretty dark, right? Both my parents were Nigerian.”

Charlie shrugged in agreement. 

“Most of us weren’t sired yesterday. In LA, more like, the days of coloured water fountains? Cam domains skew a lot older.” Zari grimaced and scooted closer to Charlie, who stared in surprise. “I know Fortier, in Anaheim, had slaves when he was human — frankly, as a vamp, too.”

Charlie didn’t know what to say. She reached out a hand, sickened at herself for going to Disneyland. “That’s horrifying. I’m sorry.”

Zari took the hand and absorbed the small kindness. “Progress isn’t exactly a straight line. Some people always knew owning people was wrong or women were man’s equal. Not a lot, though. Makes elders a lot scarier to people like you and me.”

“How does Fortier even have power? I mean, we can’t really vote out a baron—”

Zari shook her head. “We only hold onto anything until someone takes it from us, by force, or another stops them — by force or threat of.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again. The words felt so useless.

“Don’t be sorry,” said Zari with a smile. She patted Charlie’s hand. “Be angry. Build the world you want to live in. Our world is small enough that we can do that, to a degree, at least.”

Hawthorne and Jack continued their fight but, even quite drunk, Jack was no match for her. Hawthorne deftly leapt onto the bar and cackled.

“I feel like we got started on the wrong foot,” said Charlie awkwardly. “I’m sorry—”

“You better stop apologizing,” she threatened with a smile. “All fledglings go through a rough patch.”

“How do you do it?” asked Charlie quietly. “You weren’t turned that long ago. You had to have friends—”

“Don’t.” The word was gentle but firm.

“I know I shouldn’t be asking. ‘Vampires have secrets’. I guess—”

“Don’t.” Less gentle. More firm.

The quiet stiffened between them. Zari flipped open her laptop but only for something to stare at, to put distance between them.

“I don’t talk about my past,” said Zari softly. “Same reason Monroe doesn’t talk about Baltimore or New York, or Jack about the theatre. Secrets. We’re allowed to keep them.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing, girl,” she snapped. “What you do is you bury your past. You dig a grave for yourself and who you used to be and jump into it. Old you? Dead. Buried. Gone. Don’t look back, only forward. You can still build a fulfilling, meaningful life as a vampire.”

The clipped words bit into Charlie’s forbidden thoughts. As good as that sounded, she had responsibilities. No matter how she had been neglecting them lately. The thought of her sister twisted like a knife.

Jack fell hard and his sword clattered away. He laughed as Hawthorne’s blade poked at his throat.

“Come on, boy, get up,” she taunted. “It’s just a little wee sword, it can’t hurt you at all.”

Charlie and Zari applauded Hawthorne’s victory. Jack was full of holes yet Hawthorne had remained untouched. Good thing, too, considering the amount of hungry vampires around.

Jack swiped his legs and Hawthorne hit the ground too, laughing.

He helped her up and brought her over to their corner. Hawthorne took an armchair and slung her legs over one of the arms. She fished a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket and lit one — making all the vampires flinch at the flash of fire. 

She had fought incredibly, a result surely of her incredible lifespan. Strong, fast, powerful. Charlie knew the ghoul went to UCLA, probably had gone to uni for decades. She still ate food, drank, smoked apparently, and went out in sunlight. A not insignificant part of Charlie was mad with jealousy. Another part of her considered Dustin, in spite of Jack’s warning and their tense relationship. 

“What’s it like?” asked Charlie. “Being a ghoul.”

Hawthorne’s lazy tipsy smile became more pronounced. “To become a ghoul is to meet God,” she said, matter-of-fact. “It is to be permitted to kneel before the altar of His glory and know that He chose you to serve him. It is to know His power, His goodness, and His strength.”

Charlie stared, dumbstruck.

“Are we still talking about Monroe?” asked Zari with a stilted laugh.

Hawthorne took a drag. “Oh, absolutely.” She joined in the laughter. She turned her attention back to Charlie and sombered. “It’s not my place to tell Cainites what to do, but I’ll advise you that, if you intend to ghoul to retain a human companion, don’t. Ghoul Beasts respond all the same. All ghouls become ghoulish, in their own way.”

Those serious black eyes blinked and Charlie knew they judged her.

Charlie sunk backwards.

Zari waved a hand. “You don’t need a ghoul. Amongst a coterie, two or three is plenty. I have a pair myself and Monroe has a stable-full.”

Jack raised a hand. “Besides, Hawthorne must count as four or five at least.”

Hawthorne blew smoke and averted her eyes. “At least,” she muttered.

The mood didn’t change at all, as Zari teased Jack about the fight and Hawthorne reverted into her typical background silence, but Charlie felt her own mood change. She supposed she had never thought much about Monroe’s attache. They all had had their own tragedies, she guessed, but that struck her. At least Charlie chose to be here, whatever choice she had.

She left shortly after, with a bad taste in her mouth.

After this long, Charlie had her own reserved parking spot behind Blue. She drove home and tried to put Hawthorne’s eyes out of her mind, without much success. First, Charlie made a stopover at her new best friend. Francis Bakersfield, convicted of sexual conduct with a minor under fourteen. Charlie didn’t even need to break in. He opened the door with a familiar fear in his eyes. On her first visit, it had been too easy to convince him she was an avenging angel.

He fell to his knees and started the Lord’s prayer. She pulled him to his feet and dragged him inside his own house. He continued to pray, muttering nonsense as she fed.

Charlie dropped him in the living room and made herself comfortable. In the dazed, half-conscious minutes after feeding, Francis invoked more pity than anger. His mind was held together with duct tape and spit. She didn’t know how much it was her doing. It didn’t bother her. It probably should have.

Maybe it would be some kind of justice, to ghoul someone like him. Charlie wondered what Hawthorne had done, if anything. Of course, if Charlie after a month and a half of being a vampire was this far removed from humanity, Hawthorne was likely galaxies away after two hundred and fifty years.

“Ariel,” muttered Francis. Awareness began to fade into his eyes. “Ariel, protector of little ones, great wrath… Eyes in the dark… Burning wheels… Never return.”

Charlie left quickly.

Maybe it wasn’t smart to feed so close to home, but it was only minutes back. Dustin’s car, usually on the street, wasn’t there. In her car, Charlie finally checked her phone. Three missed calls, a voicemail, and one abrupt text.

_ Taking Bella to my parents for the night _ .

Confused, Charlie listened to the voicemail. Dustin was quiet, but furious. “Fine, guess you’re busy. Again. If you’re not interested in doing anything, I’m taking Bella for Thanksgiving at my parents’.” He paused, then added, “Don’t bother coming.”

Charlie listened to it again. The venom in his voice. 

She turned off her phone. The silence in her car deafened her.

She hadn’t seen Bella, really talked with her and spent time in days maybe. Maybe more. She tried to remember the last thing Dustin had said. Had he ever mentioned Thanksgiving? Maybe. When they did talk, they argued. Even about stupid stuff. Charlie didn’t come home enough. Dustin left his socks lying around. His laugh annoyed her. He acted like a brat.

Charlie missed him. Their relationship. What had happened?

Maybe she could still go. It was after nine. They would’ve finished dinner. She didn’t need to eat. She had been working. Though she hadn’t seen them in a while, she knew his parents. They liked her.

Charlie started the car again and made her way to Dustin’s. The two-storey family house glowed with mirth. The street was full of cars, on both sides. Thanksgiving. How could she have forgotten it? She didn’t have much of a family to speak of, but she should’ve been there. She inspected her teeth in the mirror for any blood or flecks of gore…

… and realised what she was doing.

Her reflection’s eyes met her own. Brown. Haunted in their depths. They didn’t blink. The freckles across her nose stuck out like dirt on her greyish skin. 

A bit of something red and rubbery was wedged between her front teeth. Skin. Vein. She pulled it out with a dawning sense of horror and grief.

She couldn’t go in. But she couldn’t not.

Those dead eyes knew what she would do before she did it.

Charlie let herself go invisible. She exited the car, crossed the front yard, and slipped past the side gate into the backyard. A BBQ had run earlier in the night. She could still smell the smoke and cooked meat. The cold wet air chased people inside. A handful of people stood by the kitchen with glasses of wine, but most were in the living room and dining table. Music played. Laughter.

Dustin had a score of aunts, uncles, and little cousins. Even as the adults wound down, the kids wouldn’t run out of energy until they passed out. A roaring game of Legos spread out over the entire living room floor. Clearly, the boys and girls each had rival cities that used ping pong balls to make war. Charlie smiled. Bella. 

Bella sat in the middle, among Dustin’s cousins, building up a skyscraper with another girl. They yelled at the boys for throwing ping pong balls before it was ready. One of Dustin’s aunts spoke sharply, likely telling the boys to play nice. Cowed, they agreed and sulked behind their city.

The backdoor slid open and a pair of uncles came out, cigarettes in hand.

“Don’t do it,” Charlie muttered to herself, even as she stepped past them and quietly entered the house.

Dustin’s family get-togethers were always crowded. Didn’t help that his father was a fan of kitsch and there wasn’t much room to begin with. Charlie moved, confident in her invisibility, and edged into a corner by the TV. She slid against the wall and pulled her knees close.

Sports commentators rehashed the Super Bowl next to her. Everyone at least paid partial attention to the TV. As eyes slid past her, Charlie tried to name them, the aunts and uncles she had met once or twice. Dustin’s much older brother had come with his wife. Charlie thought the little twins were theirs. Conversation moved fast and loud, a mix of English and Yiddish.

The kids spoke English, with the occasional Yiddish curse that Charlie recognised. Every time, one of the boys got yelled at. Every time, he muttered it again.

And Dustin. He talked with his brother in the kitchen. Bags hung under his eyes, but he smiled. Same old smile. Charlie couldn’t remember the last time she saw it.

How long had it taken? Had she only been turned four, five weeks ago? Did it not even take two months for her to become such a stranger in her own life? This time last year, Dustin had invited her and Bella to spend holidays with his family. So that they wouldn’t be alone.

Dustin ruffled Bella’s hair as he took a beer and sat behind her. He was close enough to touch.

“Hey!” she yelped.

“Hey, yourself,” he said. “How’s Mount Pikachu?”

“GI Joe is waiting for Commander Barbie to come home from the war,” said Bella solemnly, pointing to the thrown Barbie doll that lay in the boys’ moat. “She’s never coming home.”

Dustin opened the beer. “I’m sure she’ll be home one day, kid.”

Charlie didn’t think he was talking about Commander Barbie.

She almost reached out. She could do it. Play off like she got there a while ago. His parents would be glad to see her again. She had always gotten along well with Dustin’s sister-in-law, Cherise. And Uncle Mel, who hated it when you called him Mel. And maybe even Debborah, his older cousin who worked at the  _ LA Times _ and always promised Charlie could get a job there one day. 

But then that Charlie had died. Zari was right. She had died in Griffith Park and she was only fooling herself thinking otherwise.

Charlie leaned against the wall and let the night wash over her. Conversation about sports games and  _ could you belief that ref? _ , and new jobs and new pregnancies, the raging war of Mount Pikachu and Castle Sonic, how rainy and miserable it had been, a twist in some reality show and a neighbour’s divorce. It was so normal. Charlie let it consume her thoughts until she couldn’t take it anymore.

At last, she stood, slipped out the open back door, and left the house by herself. She didn’t cry. Maybe she should have. She didn’t have any tears in her anymore. Somehow, it all seemed so far beyond tears.

Charlie didn’t realise the car parked next to her until she stepped out. It was a gleaming silver Mercedes, far too nice for the area. Zari stepped out, looking as drawn and exhausted as Charlie felt. They stared at each other wordlessly. Zari didn’t offer a hug. Charlie wasn’t about to ask for pity.

“What?” asked Charlie.

“Who was in there?” asked Zari.

“Friend.”

She nodded. “There’s something I want to show you. Ride with me.”

Charlie rode shotgun and slammed the door. “I’m not really good company right now.”

Zari drove anyways. Far away, at least a couple of neighbourhoods. Charlie didn’t recognise where they were. Maybe somewhere in Westside. They stopped in a neighbourhood not unlike Dustin’s. Most houses were only one-storey, but the lawns were tended well. Despite the hour, lights glowed in most windows. Here, the party hadn’t ended yet. Teenagers skateboarded down the road.

Zari stopped at a particular house. The curtains hadn’t been drawn. A family sat at the dining table, some game board between them. Once Charlie realised they were all Black, she understood what Zari wanted to show her. An old grandfather, a married couple with kids and another grown woman who looked an awful lot like Zari. One kid pumped the air as the game went his way.

“Your family?” asked Charlie. “Your dad and siblings?”

Zari smiled, staring at the house. “My husband and children.”

Charlie looked back. “Shit.”

The man must’ve been in his sixties, his children in their early thirties.

“I went missing, thirty-one years ago,” said Zari dimly. “Cops didn’t look too hard and, when Ashley faked my death a couple years later, they accepted it easy.” She gave a snort of derision. “My sire was some stupid bastard who tried to challenge the Voermans for Westside. I was supposed to be another footsoldier. By the time he got killed and Ashley found me, I got what this world was about. I couldn’t have my family wrapped up in this.”

Charlie still couldn’t quite believe it. The old man had a face lined with heavy wrinkles and closely cut snow white hair. Zari was the perfectly preserved beauty of a woman in her mid twenties. “That was your husband?”

“That’s the thing about life,” she said in a thick, pained voice. “It goes on, even without you.” Her lip quivered.

Charlie reached across the seat and wrapped her arms around her. Zari resisted the hug at first, but lay her head across Charlie’s shoulders. At first, she only gasped, a sharp intake of breath that contained more genuine emotion than Charlie had heard from her in the last month. Zari shook. Sweet-smelling vampire blood leaked from her eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” said Charlie, again and again.

“Sometimes,” Zari confessed, “I come out and watch them. I went to my boy’s wedding last year. Never saw me. Don’t know if they even know me. He was only three when I left. Aisha was five.”

Five wasn’t so far from seven. Would Bella know her in thirty years?

Charlie stroked her hair. “He looks like a nice guy.”

Zari pointed them out. Noel, the skinny man with a fade and cropped beard, and Aisha, a woman who looked more like Zari’s sister than daughter. Same round face and smooth broad features, and dark black skin but she wore her hair in delicate pencil-thin braids. Charlie tried to picture them as little kids.

“Noel works as an accountant,” said Zari, gazing at the widow. “Aisha’s a hair stylist. I’ve thought about visiting her sometimes, but…”

“They look like nice people,” said Charlie lamely.

Zari took her hand. “Who was in that house?”

Charlie swallowed heavily. “My little sister.”

“If you love her, you’ll let her be happy,” she whispered. “You can still be looking after her.”

It was Charlie’s turn to cry. She shook her head. “No. She’s all I got left.”

Zari’s laugh of a smile choked. “You got us.”

  
  


Thanksgiving was always a quiet night on Sunset Junction. Major family-oriented holidays tended to empty the clubs at the lengths of road surrounding Sunset and Santa Monica, where they met in Silver Lake. The clusters of pretend-rebellious trust fund teens and friend groups of the dispossessed, which made the bread and butter of business, found better things to do.

It was almost eerie as Monroe crossed the street, offering in hand. Quiet bars and clubs and boutiques turned into a neon ghost town. The black silence judged him. The ordinary act of bringing his retainer dinner felt illicit — in a way he treasured, a reversal of roles that defined their relationship.

Blue Moon hadn’t faltered as he had feared. So far, Garcia hadn’t seen fit to strike at Monroe’s own heart. There were numerous ways. A series of bar brawls, overdoses, or police crackdowns — all of which were occupational hazards — could pile into a death by a thousand cuts. Yet, nothing. For now. The owner stayed out of his way, as Monroe occasionally had to Dominate him to do. He would rather not have to kill him.

Aside from the near-empty club. Occupational hazard of the holidays. A bartender — one he fed on, he remembered as he passed by — gave him a nervous excited smile. Monroe crossed the floor into the back maze of tight hallways. Even dim, the fluorescents bloomed overexposed light across forlorn desks and a lounge. Smoke, from both drugs and cigarettes, clung to the walls and fabrics. 

An electronic whirr interrupted a muffled music behind closed doors. He opened them. This late, only one soul remained cloistered in the studio. He set down his offering on the table next to Hawthorne. A plastic bag of Chinese and a coffee. Mocha, with fair trade chocolate, Columbian roast from a local coffeeshop, three shots long-pour espresso, no whip. And, in the fall only, add two pumps peppermint and then two sweet syrup to counteract the shop’s subpar peppermint.

She didn’t even glance up from the recording deck. “Special occasion?”

“I’m right,” he said gleefully.

Hawthorne smirked and tapped her cigarette against the ash tray. 

“That’s not a special occasion,” she said. “You’re right about everything else. Let me savour when you’re wrong.” Her fingers twiddled a dial until only the guitar track sang out. “Have you even heard Steven’s solo?”

“He’s a phenomenal talent.”

“He’s Van Halen — twenty years late.”

Monroe took off his jacket and sat. “Did you tell him your reservations?”

As far as the artists on Blue Moon’s label were concerned, Hawthorne had even more say in producing than he did. A fellow immortal, she refused to be credited as anything other than A.H., but most of the label’s fledgling success rested on her shoulders, the club on his.

“No,” she said casually. Hawthorne reached for the drink and sipped. Her eyebrows rose in surprised approval.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“You got it right,” she said in a strange voice. A smile crawled onto her lips and he found himself wanting to return it. She looked at him different, kindly, and he lost his voice somewhere in his throat.

“I’m right about everything.” He didn’t remember thinking it, but the words came out and she blushed. If he focused, he could count each eyelash that fluttered as she struggled to maintain eye contact.

“You are.”

Monroe turned away. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not making it weird,” she said hurriedly. She reached into the bag of Chinese.

The air tasted weird, spoilt. Only the crinkling of plastic disrupted the silence. Like he had done something wrong, but couldn’t possibly have figured out anything else he could’ve done. Sesame chicken and chow fun. It smelled familiar and she ate quickly, suddenly realising how ravenous she was.

She caught him watching her. “Do you ever miss it? Food?”

Monroe hadn’t considered that for a long time. “I’m content to watch you. I’m sure it’s good.”

Hawthorne dug through the squared container with a flimsy fork, drawing more steam and nuanced scents. “I’d miss it,” she added. “Food’s changed a lot the last couple hundred years. Can’t imagine not being able to enjoy it all.”

“When you put it like that.” He shrugged, but knew it was another pointed reminder for him. To her mind, ghoulhood was not without its favours. Maybe she was even right, but it didn’t matter. She considered herself right. “Do you have a favourite this decade?” he asked.

Hawthorne started, then chewed thoughtfully. “Hot dogs. There’s a pop-up that makes them a thousand ways, and their Mongolian is great.” She indicated the takeout. “This hits the spot, too.”

“Hot dogs were my last meal,” he said suddenly.

She laughed. “Weren’t you Embraced 1873?”

“There were hot dog vendors in 1873,” he said defensively. “I had two, that night.”

She was too well-bred to falter, but she did anyway. Briefly, her mouth opened and shut, as she swallowed her words and returned to her food.

“What?” asked Monroe.

Eye contact was the height of formal politeness among Ventrue and their retainers, but it felt invasive when she said, “I just wondered what you were like, before. I can’t imagine you eating hot dogs.”

Monroe had been about to argue that he wasn’t that much different. Instead of herding cats around a coterie and stray fledglings, he had had his company in the military. Even a certain skill in intrigue, of playing favours with the commanders. Then, he gave it another thought.

“I was a lot more fun,” he said. “I was always a bit stiff, but I spent most of my nights in very tight quarters, with sixteen other men aged fifteen to thirty, drinking and playing cards.”

Every now and then, she would pry a nugget of his past before them and he would acquiesce. He had long ago learned to not ask for her own history.

Hawthorne absorbed it with interest. “Do you know what happened to them?”

“After I had been sent home? Not for a long time. After the agoge, I managed to track them down — marriage records, births of their children — but Fowler didn’t like that. Even so, I made some sly donations to them and their children.”

Her lips quirked in that way they sometimes did, like she had a secret or a joke she didn’t want to share. “Ventrue do tend to accumulate money,” she said instead. “You all get a stock portfolio when you’re Embraced.”

The familiar clan insult — born equal parts envy and loathing from the other clans — rankled Monroe’s Beast, but all he did was laugh.

“You think Fowler gave me a damn cent?”

“Of course not,” she said with a frown. “A penny was quite a lot of money back in your day.”

“Easy, Miss Hawthorne,” he warned, “you’re older than me, still.”

She beamed to herself, pleased, and turned back to the recording deck. “Now, I’m sure your night’s work has been dreadfully dull, so how about you hear mine?” Without waiting for an answer, she played the first mix of the album from the first song.

It was dated, even with her magic. Hawthorne was right. Not too badly. Something about the whirlwind genre of early noughties gothic industrial, eighties hair metal, and golden oldies’ trembling wail really worked. Monroe liked it. He couldn’t predict trends like Hawthorne did, but it fit the weird trends of Blue Moon’s stage.

“What about a harp?” he asked around the third song.

Hawthorne coughed, choking on her drink. “A  _ what _ ?”

“A harp. You know, like angels play? Or a fiddle, maybe?”

She grinned. “Dear me, after seventeen decades, you’ve finally lost your last marble.”

He shrugged. “Ska-punk picked up the trumpet and other brass.”

“No, no, no,” said Hawthorne with a laugh. “Brass was there from day one ska, in Jamaica. White boys just found it and used the brass as some in-your-face Anarch bullshit.”

“Exactly. It fit the mood. Strings have this same sort of haunting feel. Piano, if you don’t want to bust out a harp.”

Hawthorne considered it over another demo track. Her lips pursed and she drank faster.

Monroe smiled. “You’re not into it.”

“Well, this is a passion project. We can give it a go.” She tilted her head curiously. “What happened earlier tonight?”

“Did something have to happen for me to make stupid suggestions?”

“No.” She smiled like that again, small, private, like she had a naughty secret. “But you’re stiff.”

“I’m Ventrue. I’m always stiff.”

Hawthorne played with the mix of the bass and pitch of the different tracks. Monroe didn’t feel like telling her that he had spent the last several hours contemplating his early demise and the ramifications of it. Charlie would be taken care of. Zari and Jack would see to that. Maybe one of them would take Hawthorne, or Ashley would start a bidding war. Well-trained ghouls were valuable, equal parts loyal hound and broken-in slave. Not to mention that she had full access to his trust fund and assets, the only keyholder aside from himself.

Monroe took a sealed envelope and passed it to Hawthorne. A blue ribbon wound around the heavy linen, sealed with a gold wax stamp. One she recognised, confused. It was his own seal. Sword and scepter for his clan, nine stars for his Generation, the mark of Artemis Orthia as his methuselah, and his Embrace year.

“What’s this?” she asked quietly.

“There’s a good chance I won’t survive Garcia’s Danse,” said Monroe. She didn’t even argue. Hawthorne had been around enough Camarilla courts to know the odds. “If I don’t, you have options. This is another one.”

“Options,” she repeated distastefully. “Anyone ever ask what I want?”

“I do,” he said empathetically. “As often as you let me.”

“That was rhetorical.” Hawthorne’s fingers hovered over the seal, as if she couldn’t quite believe it. He had prepared a will. “Who? Who’re you giving me to?”

Monroe took a deep breath. “Jan Pieterzoon. Of course, he never needs to see it. You can burn the will, if you want.”

Hawthorne chuckled but her eyes touched the envelope softly. “There was a time I would’ve given the lives of all of your sire’s ghouls to have Pieterzoon as a regent,” she whispered. “Respected distant elder, aloof, so preoccupied with Cainite affairs he never has the the time to abuse his stable.”

“And now?” He didn’t want the answer. It wouldn’t lead to anything good. Damn it, why had he asked?

Her smile warbled. “I never considered how wonderful it could be to have a regent who had the time for his ghouls.”

Monroe looked away from those eyes. “Ask Dawson if I have time for ghouls.”

Hawthorne allowed him that. Dawson still didn’t know a damn thing about Monroe — or Monroe about Dawson.

“I don’t regret it,” she insisted. “That night, when San Francisco fell to the Anarchs and your sire’s bond over us shattered. Custom dictated I be willed to his eldest childe. I’m glad it was you — these years we’ve had.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I’m sorry I had to drag you into the Free State.”

Hawthorne smiled again. “You dragged me nowhere.”

It was a lie, told for her comfort and for his, as to pretend she didn’t now labour under his blood bond as they had both once laboured under his sire’s. He refused to believe it. Fowler’s snide voice in his mind reminded him harshly that she only smiled like that, looked at him like that, spoke to him like that because of Monroe’s blood in her veins. 

Monroe wondered what she would think of him when he died and the bond left her.

“I’ll…” Hawthorne set the letter and her thoughts aside. “I’ll ask Fishbone if they’ve ever thought of adding a string. Maybe piano, that could work. And, thanks — for the coffee.”

“Oh, right,” he said absently. “Anytime.”

“How are our thinblood refugees?” she asked.

Monroe struggled to find his way back to his thoughts. “Shaken and angry, but fine. I set them up in a house east of the reservoir. Copper said he’d talk to the rest of them about starting that alchemy again, but he couldn’t promise anything.”

“I doubt Garcia will be scared by a little levitation.”

The album came to an end and Hawthorne didn’t even bother to work anymore. She changed the disc for a personal CD. Like always, Monroe knew nothing on Hawthorne radio, a hit and miss mix of fringe genres.

“You’re still going to your classes, aren’t you?” he asked thoughtfully.

She started, then understood. “You want to go to ground.”

He took a deep breath. “I want to be ready to go to ground. We have to be prepared for LA to become as hostile to us as any Camarilla domain.”

“Got it,” she said with a smarmy smile. 

“I don’t even know for sure if Zari or Jack would be on my side if Garcia calls a Lextalionis — or whatever an Anarch baron calls it.”

“I understand,” she said. Her fingers slipped over the Zippo as she tried to light up again. “I’ll leave UCLA, for now. I can always take them next go around.”

“Thank you,” he said sincerely. “Garcia is old friends with pretty much every kindred of note. I don’t need the Professor to extort you.”

Hawthorne laughed. “Come on, give them some credit. He would be far subtler, wring me dry for information, and send me back with no memory of the event.”

“Stay home,” he said, not laughing. He watched her as she hummed along to her music, jiving awkwardly to the beat in the chair. “Is that what you would do?” he asked.

Hawthorne stopped moving. “I pay attention.”

She did. The traditional Ventrue agoge, a new fledgling’s training period, lasted years — decades. It strived to take a middling businessman, crime lord, or military veteran and turn them into someone capable of pulling strings of intrigue. Hawthorne had served Clan Ventrue for over two centuries. All the wasted promise tasted bitter but he swallowed the compliment he knew she wouldn’t take as one.

She looked away. “Mr Monroe—”

“I’m sorry,” he said, for more than she knew. “We won’t go into lockdown, not yet, but I want you kept close and kept safe. Make your contingency plan, please.”

Hawthorne grimaced. “Yes, sir.”

“Thank you, Miss Hawthorne,” he said. 

No amount of music could ease the clotted air and so he left her to her own devices.


	12. The Revival Theatre

Before the sun dipped beyond the horizon and Monroe opened his eyes, he felt Hawthorne’s presence. His blood was near, a comforting presence in the black nothingness of daysleep. As his senses returned, other details came to him. Cigarette smoke. Almond and cherry. Orphan blood musk. Fear. He started as dusk let him awaken and sat up.

“No one’s contacted me,” she said. Her voice was dark and stormy. She waited with her back to him, hands clasped behind her, and a full ashtray nearby. But she wasn’t dressed in her typical professional blacks. She wore black pants, large and shapeless, tucked into military boots.

The fourth night. Again.

“I’ll meet you at the car in ten,” he said.

Monroe feared it. He did not fear much. He had approximately ten minutes to fret, before he had to join Hawthorne at the car and pick up Charlie and Zari. Charlie. The fledgling would be unprepared for the danger of the unknown. She would want to come, though.

He dressed as Hawthorne had, in casual work clothes that took him to a different time, a different mindset. Occasionally, Clan Ventrue needed the discretion that came only with another of their blood. The choice had not been his. The vocation that had been forced upon him had never sat well with him, though it left him useful skills.

Hawthorne didn’t speak as she drove, too fast and not fast enough. He was in no mood to break the silence.

He sent a text to their group chat.

_ This is Jack’s fourth night _ .

Zari replied almost immediately.

_ Tell me where. _

Monroe directed her to the revival cinema in Los Feliz. It was the location Jack always left him, in case he didn’t make contact again. Twice before, he had failed to make contact and twice before they had found him roosting as a bat in the rafters. He played it off, not knowing Monroe had visited his apartment first.

Surprisingly, it had held a large collection of books. Strange books, in other languages. Not Mandarin, but Greek, Latin, French. Occult books, not the type bought by rebellious human teenagers, but serious studies. Old. Many handwritten, as though copied out. Neither Monroe nor Jack had ever brought up his illicit hobby, but each time he vanished Monroe feared it would be the end of him.

Rubio knew scant magic, though he pretended to. Jack feared Orsay. He wouldn’t have approached her for magical aide — or perhaps that was only what he wanted Monroe to think. He banished the thought. Everything pointed to an additional magical practitioner in the city. One even Monroe had not heard of.

Charlie didn’t respond to his text. At least, not before they appeared at her front door. Monroe knocked. And again, more irritably. And again, until Charlie threw open the door.

She looked unwell. Kindred didn’t necessarily cry, but there was an aching sorrow in her eyes, a hunch in her shoulders, that spoke of a similar experience. 

“I got your text,” she said. It sounded like she hadn’t used her voice in days.

“Jack’s missing,” he said. “We have an agreement. Check in, at least every three days, even if on personal business. Tonight, I have to assume Jack’s in trouble.”

Despite whatever crisis she was in the midst of, Charlie grabbed her jean jacket and shoes. “What are we doing?” she asked. “Where are we going? Should I bring anything?”

“Miss Hawthorne has weapons in the car,” he said. “The revival cinema, in Los Feliz.”

Charlie reached the car before he did, entered, and slammed the backseat door as was her custom. “We’re going to the movies?”

“They’re unofficially closed, Monday to Thursday,” he said.

Charlie leaned forward. “Unofficially?”

Monroe grimaced. “Ashley Swan uses the theatre to launder money.”

“Oh.”

Not for the first time, Monroe considered if Ashley and Jack had dealings. Unlikely, but nothing was certain. Monroe had never told Ashley that Jack used his theatre. Making an enemy out of Ashley, especially now, seemed like a dreadfully stupid idea. Truthfully, he had never asked Jack what he did there. As much as Monroe valued his own privacy, he loathed others’. Hawthorne pulled away and continued on to the theatre. Too fast, too quiet, the air pregnant with the unknowns.

“I can’t tell you what we’re going to find,” he told Charlie. “He might be kidnapped by another kindred. He might be in danger. He could be dead.”

“No.” She shook her head adamantly. “I’d know it. I would. He’s — He’s not dead.”

Monroe turned to face her. There was no irrational fear. Rather, she  _ knew _ Jack was still alive. “Malkavian ‘know’ or did you share blood?”

“Both.” Her eyes began to glow a bright crimson. A basic skill of Protean, he was almost sure of it. Night vision. Helpful, perhaps, especially combined with her Obfuscate. Maybe the part-bond would help her adjust.

Too soon, Hawthorne pulled into the quaint rundown downtown of Los Feliz. The brick buildings, painted over in a shiny but flaking rust-red, would be charmingly antique if somebody gutted them and stuck in a Starbucks or nightclub. Instead, they withered as family-run restaurants and stores that hadn’t seen an update since Eisenhower. The neighbourhood was safer than Hollywood to the west or Silver Lake to the south, letting people add a much-needed life to the streets.

The revival theatre must’ve been grand in the 1920s, the focal point of a working neighbourhood a stone’s throw from Hollywood. But now, the marquees board was blank, the edges of the letter slots yellowed and dirty. The car glided past it and parked in some lot that cost too much.

In the parking lot, Zari stood outside her silver Mercedes, pacing. When they came to a stop and Hawthorne popped the trunk, she hurried over, her face drawn tight in concern.

Monroe gave Charlie the quickest rundown on a pistol, as he offered her a Raufoss. “Don’t aim that at something unless you’re committed to shooting it,” he said. “A gun is always loaded. Aim for the body. A kindred will likely burst into flames, regardless where you hit them.”

“Point and shoot,” said Charlie with a wry smile.

“If you shoot me with that, I will die,” he told her, and the smile disappeared. He let go of the gun and she tucked it away.

Zari took one, uncertainly, and slipped a spare stake in her harness under her jacket. The gun looked gigantic in her small hands.

Hawthorne and Monroe kitted up. Silver for werewolves. Raufoss for kindred. A semi-auto pistol for humans. Ammo. Stakes. Hawthorne wore a sword. In addition, they handed out three high powered flashlights.

“What’s the chance he’s just hosting a private screening?” asked Charlie hopefully.

“Very slim,” said Zari. “He’s done this a few times. Each time, we’ve… found him.”

“That doesn’t sound encouraging.” Charlie’s eyes flickered between them, but she received no answers.

They turned out onto the street and walked the block to the theatre. Red, bleached to pink by the sun, the ticketboothe was dark and lonely.

“What’s the idea?” asked Zari. “Breaking in the front or the back?”

Monroe laid a hand on the flat smooth doors. He had only been to the theatre twice before, when Jack had vanished. Each time, it filled him with an unnatural feeling of dread. Keenly aware of how paranoid it sounded, now he began to wonder if it was magic. A blood sorcery ward, or something worse.

Maybe Charlie read his mind — a dreadful thought, though not entirely out of the realm of possibility when it came to Malkavians — but she said, “There’s a door in the alley.”

Monroe stared as she led them. “Have you been here?”

In the alley, between the theatre and the pizza place next door, there was a side door. A bucket stood in the alley, as though to prop the door open for smoke breaks.

“No,” said Charlie in a distant voice. She lifted a hand, her fingers shifting through the air. “I just…” She dropped her hand. “Nevermind. Is it armed?”

“It’s never armed.” Monroe grabbed the handle and wrenched. The deadbolt broke easily into slivers of metal.

They clicked on flashlights and the beams played across the dark kitchen like searchlights. The steel tables and equipment reflected the beams back into ambient light, stark and cheerless. Charlie’s eyes were two red penlights to themselves. Monroe kept his gun close at hand.

“What do your elf eyes see?” asked Hawthorne in a hush.

Charlie flashed a grin to her, white teeth in the darkness. “Not much,” she whispered. “Just, a kitchen. A door, down there. Are elves real?”

“Not that I know of,” said Monroe.

This was not the time to tell her about fairies.

The door opened to the lobby and concession stand, advertising hot snacks and even full meals and alcohol to make a full date night in the theatre. It hadn’t been well cleaned and stunk of old grease and harsh chemicals. The lobby was full of frayed worn carpeting and the cracked high ceilings displayed several shoddy patch jobs, turning the white ceilings into a leopard print of white. Despite opening tomorrow night, everything had a layer of dust and disregard.

The unnatural feeling was stronger here. It was a paranoia of being watched, of shadows moving, of the stale cold air brushing by his collar like the breath of the dead.

“Should we call for him?” asked Zari, her face drawn in concern.

Monroe almost jumped out of his skin. “Fine. Yes. Call him.”

Zari dialed, but no one answered. She dialed again.

That put kidnapping lower on the list of things that might’ve happened. If your kidnapped victim’s phone rang, you answered it to settle the extortion.

Charlie had drifted towards the door to the theatre. She turned back and hissed, raising an arm as a flashlight beam found her red eyes.

“Does it only got the one screen?” she asked quietly.

Monroe nodded.

The door swung open. Normally, by now, Jack came out of a closet somewhere. They had never had to enter the screening room. The feeling intensified, but it hung colder, bitterer. Sadder. The screening room was a hallmark of an era gone by. Pillars flanked the silver screen, carved and meeting the elaborately painted ceiling. Two tiers of red velvet seats overlooked the massive modern screen. But, still, the seats were faded and worn, and a number of them stayed down or folded upwards. Dust and cobwebs clung to the pillars. Spiral stairs beside the door wove to the balconies and higher tier.

Charlie walked down the aisle, Monroe close behind her. Zari grabbed his arm and Monroe flinched.

“What’s up?” he asked quietly.

“I’m gonna go see about turning the lights on.”

He gave her a pointed look. “That seems like a bad idea.”

Zari sighed. “Come on, Matt, look at this place. Jack’s somewhere, playing crow or bat in the rafters, and just forgot. Again. As much as I enjoy  _ this— _ ” she waved a hand to indicate his tenseness “ _ — _ wolfboy is fine.”

Monroe opened his mouth to tell her about the books he had found in Jack’s place when it happened.

He likened it to the icy blanket of Obfuscate, so unnatural to his blood, when it slipped over him. The world faded of colour, pulsing gently in the blue-grey night. The ceiling, already cracked, spidered and flaked. The seats beside them wore thinner, as though eaten by invisible decay. A mouse scurrying by froze in time, fur peeling back to reveal flesh rich with maggots. Broad-leafed plants in the lobby overgrew with spotted black leaves. Diseased. The wood floor rotted. Metal creaked from lighting systems above them, groaning like the awakening cry of a long-slumbering leviathan. 

Only the screen, the three women, and himself appeared normal.

Charlie turned and ran back to join Zari, Monroe, and Hawthorne.

“The fuck is that?” demanded Charlie.

“Good to know it’s not only me,” said Monroe.

“Is this normal? Is this just what the theatre is when you’re a vampire?” Charlie went on. She smiled easily, eyes glued on the ceiling. “Because that’s kind of cool.”

“No,” said Zari. She clung to Monroe. “Absolutely not. This is… not good.”

Monroe felt it. The foreboding feeling intensified. With the second sight came the profound feeling that he wasn’t supposed to be there. It was artificial and not of his own heart, almost like a Presence charm. For Presence, though, there needed to be a kindred. Monroe’s Beast writhed in terror. This was wrong. Evil. Almost Lasombra in its hatred of the unknown.

“Why does it not affect us?” asked Charlie.

“I believe this magic might show things in the state of death and decay,” said Hawthorne. Her flashlight played over the rat and she crouched to look at it. Vermin crawled through its insides. “We are already dead things.”

“Interesting theory,” said another voice.

Monroe moved carefully to put himself between them and the stranger. Hawthorne, as per her own methods of protection, raised a gun. The stranger leaned against a door marked for employees only. In the dark, Monroe had almost thought it was Jack, but while the man was just as tall and of Asian descent, that was where the similarities ended. He appeared to have had a bad fight with a cheap New Age store, and lost; at least a dozen necklaces dangled from his neck, swinging over a thin chest and worn tye-die shirt. Khaki cargo shorts completed the look.

“Who would you be?” asked Monroe.

The stranger jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and pulled out a lighter and pack of cigarettes. The flame from the lighter was pale and devoid of life. “I think you’re wrong, though,” he said to Hawthorne, ignoring Monroe utterly. “Dead things are not the only things untouched by deathsight. Rather, you are things touched by forces beyond the Watchtowers, but that’s not so melodramatic, huh?”

In the silence, it was easy to hear the stranger’s heartbeat. Not kindred.

Most ghouls Monroe had known had chemical vices — chain smoking, alcoholism, addictions to hard drugs — to stave off their addiction to the blood.

“Are you Jack’s ghoul?” he asked.

The stranger snorted and grinned. He had a mean smile. “Not fucking likely.”

“Who are you?” asked Zari.

With a mischievous twitch of his eyebrows, he turned and pushed the door behind him open, cigarette dangling from his mouth, indicating for them to follow him.

Zari put a hand on Monroe’s jacket. “And  _ this _ isn’t a stupid idea?”

“Probably,” he agreed, following the stranger.

Whatever he had imagined the projection room looking like — dusty, derelict, forlorn and forgotten — he was sorely disappointed. A pair of sleeping bags splayed out under tables, while books and occult paraphernalia cluttered every space inch of table space. Christmas lights added a certain charm.

The stranger picked a book from the floor and flipped through the pages without looking. “Any of you nightfolk?” he asked.

Monroe blinked, but the word meant nothing to him.

The stranger waved a hand. “Leeches. Vampires. Fangs. Caine’s bitches.”

“Kindred,” said Monroe cordially.

“Do me a solid, would you?” The stranger picked up a wooden bowl and tapped it impatiently on the table. “Fill her up.”

“I need a name,” he said, stepping forward.

The stranger stopped turning pages and cocked his head. He seemed to see them for the first time as things clicked together. “Oh.” He smiled in a way that indicated many things, but not friendliness. “You’re Monroe. You’re his gang. Thought you were fang squatters.”

“Where’s Jack?” asked Charlie impatiently. “And who the hell are you?”

The stranger pursed his thin lips into an invisible line. “I’m the hell Ryuko and, frankly, your only chance of seeing Jack alive — or, undead. Blood, Monroe. I’m burning moonlight.”

Blood was a terrible thing to give to anyone who fancied themselves a practitioner.

Monroe rolled up his sleeve and bit through his wrist. It dripped, slowly. “What do you and Jack do here?”

Ryuko stared at the bowl with open greed. “Hunt ghosts.”

Charlie laughed. But she was the only one.

“Blood sorcery can only be practiced by kindred,” said Monroe in a voice he forced steady.

“Good thing I don’t practice blood sorcery.” Ryuko dipped his cigarette’s ember into the blood and took a drag. It still glowed and the nicotine smoke tinged with burnt vitae.

“You’re a human mage,” he said quietly.

In nearly two centuries, he had never known a kindred to meet a mage. Rarer than diamonds, it was rumoured they made the Tremere look like kindergarteners. Tremere’s infamous ritual that had created their peerless clan out of a cabal of mages had been, apparently, a massive step down for them.

Ryuko met his eye and a smile curdled on his lips. “Jack hoped I would never meet you.”

“Where is he?” asked Charlie again.

Ryuko shrugged. “Jack had the ghost’s tether and, apparently, Casper doesn’t want to be laid to rest. Who knew? They’re somewhere in the Shadowlands of history. Just, need to give them a call.”

“A call?” asked Monroe. He resisted the urge to snap at Ryuko, but only just.

Ryuko dipped his fingers into the bowl of blood and began to paint. “Impeccable timing, you guys,” he said cheerfully. “And, look at that, even got the Bride to protect us.”

Sensing the cultural reference, Monroe turned to Hawthorne, who didn’t seem to take it well.

A chill ran down Monroe’s spine as he watched Ryuko paint a circle and then dozens of intricate symbols with his blood. He was distinctly reminded of the Tremere, again.

“What’s the deal with this theatre?” asked Zari, her rich voice worn thin by fear.

Ryuko shrugged impassively. “A bunch of Ariadne’s strings connect to the emotional sink of the stage down there, which lets ghosts’ pathos slide across the gauntlet and attach to a new tether. Nothing too interesting.”

“Ariadne’s strings,” said Charlie in wonder. “I  _ see _ them. I’m—”

“A Malkavian,” said Ryuko cautiously. “Yes, Jack told me about that.” He came to the end of his cigarette and promptly lit another. “I’m not asking for any favours, but I could use a hand dragging him back.”

“Anything you need,” swore Charlie.

“Hold on tight and try to not let me die,” he said. “Step in, step in, and don’t let go.”

Finished, Ryuko licked his fingers clean and poured the remainder of the blood into a glass vial that dangled from his neck. 

Smiling, he extended a hand to Monroe. “Come on, nightfolk, let’s go ghost hunting.”

God. Monroe stiffened. The things he did for this damn coterie. That Lasombra had been bad enough.

He took the hot mortal hand and stepped in.

“All of you,” encouraged Ryuko. “There we go.”

One by one, they clasped hands and then Ryuko said something. Maybe he said something. His lips moved but the sound that came out hadn’t been made by living creatures.

Far worse than the Lasombra. The only thing Monroe could compare the feeling to was the agony of a blood bond breaking with the regent’s death: a psychic, spiritual pain that struck at the heart of the Beast, reverberating physically and leaving him without any sense of where he was.

Monroe blinked himself back to awareness. Ryuko had dropped his hand, but Hawthorne hadn’t. She twitched a wry smile and let go, stepping away from him.

They hadn’t gone anywhere. Still in the projection room, but there was no occult objects, no books, and the deathsight had faded. In fact, it smelled like new paint.

Ryuko brushed past them and tore down the stairs like a man on a mission.

“That was probably a mistake,” said Zari with wide eyes. “What the fuck are we doing with a mage?”

“Finding Jack,” said Charlie aggressively and she followed him, the rest close behind.

The stairs ended in a full lobby, as though a show had just let out. A lobby streaming with sunlight from open doors. It was day, but— 

“Come on, nightfolk,” shouted Ryuko. “We’re far from God now.”

“He’s crazy,” said Zari hurriedly. “We should go back and wait for him.”

Monroe walked into the lobby as though in a dream. It wasn’t that the Beast didn’t fear. It’s that… for the first time in almost one hundred fifty years, Monroe felt no Beast. His chest was hollow, his mind clear. The residual hunger that never receded except on a feeding kill had simply faded.

He did not like the feeling. The line between Monroe and the Beast — a spirit of Ventru, Artemis Orthia, and his sire — had blurred so deeply that it felt like losing an arm or an eye. He flexed his hand in the sunlight and it trembled.

Wherever this was, it was beyond the touch of the Curse of Caine. Ryuko was right. This was truly a godless place.

“It’s okay,” he said. Turning back, Hawthorne stared at him, shocked. “We can’t lose him.”

Monroe followed Ryuko out the doors and into the street. It was only then that he noticed the people. This was downtown Los Feliz, but no signs in neon, no McDonalds rubbish in the gutter. No jeans, no t-shirts. There were slacks, shapeless coats, long skirts and dresses, and  _ hats _ . Monroe couldn’t remember the last time he had seen so many hats. He missed hats, truly. It used to be his one concession to fashion, but they had gone out of style ages ago. Decades ago.

No cars. But there were a few horses clopping along the stones. Not paved asphalt.

Ryuko stood out in his tye-die among the bleached blacks and whites, half way down the street. 

“Where are we?” Monroe called after him.

“Nineteen-oh-four.”

Even expecting it, Monroe felt his mind stutter as it tried to process the new information. “Right.”

“It’s alright. We’re ghosts. They can’t see us,” he said bitterly. As though to demonstrate, Ryuko walked straight through a man in a bowler hat. “The ghost came after us. I opened the circle, next thing I know, Jack took off—”

“I’m right here, babe,” said an invisible voice.

Ryuko jumped out of his skin, turning on the spot.

Jack laughed and turned visible. He enveloped Ryuko in a tight hug that he hurriedly stepped away from as Monroe and the others caught up to them. Aside from a look of absolute horror, Jack seemed alright. Unhurt.

“What’s going on, Ryu?” he asked faintly. “I thought you’d come back sooner.”

“Ran out of nightblood.”

Jack groaned. “You could’ve used chalk.”

Ryuko made a face. “But traveling like that always gives me indigestion. Do you still have it?”

Avoiding their eyes, Jack took a grimy piece of costume jewelry, the plastic peeling away from the gold-painted chain.

Something shrieked overhead, a terrible noise of nails on chalkboard, but there was nothing there.

“Oh, fuck, not again,” muttered Jack. He threw the jewelry at Ryuko, who grimaced. “This is the  _ last time _ you drag me—”

“How was I supposed to know it would go to the past?” he cried.

Monroe spun on the spot, looking for any signs of the creature — the ghost. What did ghosts look like? Bedsheets? Rattling chains? With the sun in the sky, it all felt too bright, too exposed.

“Back to the theatre,” said Jack urgently. “You don’t wanna be here when she gets mad.”

“Who’s she?” asked Charlie. She flickered in and out of visibility in her fear.

“I’m sure we’re gonna find out,” snapped Zari. “Hustle, now.”

Zari moved faster than Monroe had ever seen, a brown blur of Celerity. Jack and Charlie both vanished. Right. Obfuscate. Apparently, Ryuko could also evaporate. Monroe could only run. He flinched when he sped through the humans who didn’t note his existence. Ryuko had been right. They were ghosts here, out of time.

The wraith shrieked and a shadow passed over Monroe. He didn’t even have the moment to react. A pain speared through his shoulder and pinned him to the sidewalk. The sidewalk burned with the heat of the sun, only adding to the rising panic. Monroe tried to prop himself up, but a sudden and more familiar pain burst from his right hand, his stomach. Like a bullet.

The wounds he had died from as a human.

The shrill pained scream of the ghost echoed mere feet above him.

The lobby doors opened. Jack dangled the necklace in the sunlight.

“Hey, Beetlejuice, look what I got! Come on, you ugly fuck.”

The ghost’s sounds became more primal, a guttural growl.

“Yeah. Come and get it,” Jack called. He burst out of the lobby doors and took off through the throngs of people.

“Jack, you dumbass!” shouted Ryuko. “Get back here.”

The pinning pressure from Monroe’s left shoulder lifted and a gust of wind flew over him. An invisible hand dragged him across the sidewalk.

“Wow, I’m strong. Didn’t know I was strong. This normal? I mean, do Malkavains get super strength? Don’t feel like I could lift a car or nothing, but you’re not nothing. No offence.”

Monroe blinked in the dimness of the lobby and struggled to sit up. The pain wasn’t so terrible, but the shattered bones of his right hand ached badly.

Charlie flickered into visibility.

“Thanks,” he said breathlessly. “And, yeah, generally. Vampires are stronger than humans. That’s a thing. Thank you.”

She nodded and gave him an arm to stand.

“Leave him on the ground,” said Ryuko. He sat cross legged next to M0nroe and smiled blithely. “How do your deathwounds feel? Look rough.”

While in the right places, they didn’t feel the same. They didn’t even bleed through his clothes. An infected wound from a tomahawk. Bullets. There was another component, an acidic psychic pain. He had no idea how much blood it would take to heal him. Four, five vessels maybe, if he wanted them all to live.

Monroe leaned on an elbow and his torso complained. “Just get us back to our time.”

Ryuko raised a bony, delicate finger and drew a line down Monroe’s face. The precise middle of his forehead, his nose, his chest, and ending at the wound. He said something again, words that weren’t sounds made by creatures.

There was no more pain. Instead, a pleasant tingling sensation, like warm water trickling down his spine.

Monroe stared. The bloody mess of his right hand became whole. Not a single drop of blood.

Ryuko smiled intimately.

The lobby doors burst open again, the other way, with another invisible force. Jack came back into focus and he slammed the doors.

“Thanks, Charlie,” he called. “Somehow, things always seem to go wrong.”

Ryuko growled and stood. “I wasn’t the wiseguy who thought it’d be a trip to hide with the tether in 1904. Did you even have a way to destroy it?”

“No,” said Jack meekly, “but I thought I could, you know, draw it off while you cast the circle. Didn’t mean to miss it.”

Ryuko snarled, but whatever he was about to say drowned out in a terrible crash that smacked against the lobby doors. He uncorked the vial around his neck, filled with Monroe’s blood, and tapped it against a finger to slick the tips. Deftly, he made a sign in midair. The blood stayed, as though painting on an invisible pane. It pulsed as the invisible ghost slammed against the doors.

“How long will that hold?” asked Monroe.

Ryuko glared at him. “How strong’s your blood?”

“Damn strong,” said Jack. “Lot stronger than mine.”

Ryuko softened. “Then, we might have time.”

He bloodied his fingers again and ran them along an unseen strand and grabbed it, vanishing instantly. 

“Showoff. I hate it when he monkeybars,” groaned Jack. “He’s probably in the projector room. That’s where he likes to circle.”

Monroe felt more lost than he had when they first met Ryuko, if that were even possible, but they followed Jack back upstairs.

“So, you’re alright, then?” asked Zari shakily.

“Oh, yeah, thanks for coming,” said Jack with an uneasy smile. “It was… real cool of you guys.”

“Ryuko was just… going to wait until he found V blood before coming to get you?” asked Charlie. The ghost shrieked again and she cringed. “This… I mean.” The ghost interrupted her again. “It doesn’t seem  _ safe _ ,” she called.

Jack shook his head adamantly. “He would’ve bitched and moaned, but he would’ve drawn a chalk circle eventually.”

“Doubt it,” said Monroe, thinking of the look in Ryuko’s eyes when he filled the bowl with his blood.

At the top of the stairs, Jack turned back to him. “Probably,” he said, conflicted. “Probably would’ve staked one of us and bled him for a while. Hoped it would be Ashley Swan.”

He held Monroe’s eye a moment longer before stepping in. Whatever other relationship Jack and Ryuko shared, Jack was his supplier of his preferred magical ingredient. A supplier who could never give enough. Vitae’s addictive properties would ensure that.

As expected, Ryuko was redrawing his circle on the floor. He kept dipping his finger into the vial he wore around his neck. 

Spotting them, Ryuko threw the costume necklace and a bottle at Jack. “When we get back to 2020, burn it,” he said in a voice used to being obeyed.

“Aye, aye,” he said wearily. “Next time, let’s  _ both _ have lighter fluid.”

He glanced up from the circle with dark eyes. “No,” he said shortly. “That defeats the point of killing them in the theatre.”

“What is the point?” asked Charlie.

Ryuko’s hard dark look vanished under a bright smile. “Fairy dust — or, ghost dust. Where ghosts are put to rest, it leaves a pocket of energy but, unfortunately, if you leave that energy in 1904, it doesn’t stay until 2020.”

“What else do you do with that energy?” asked Monroe.

Jack raised a hand. “Leave it,” he insisted. “Please.”

Ryuko raised his head again from the circle. “We’ll talk later, nightfolk.”

Jack gnawed on his lips. “Monroe,” he said quietly. “ _ Please _ .”

“Please what?” snapped Ryuko. “Please, ensure my hermit never speaks with another soul? Please, he doesn’t know what’s good for him?”

“It’s nothing like that,” Jack mumbled.

“Then what’s it like?”

The ghost wailed outside. Zari and Hawthorne did their best to pretend they didn’t hear the lover’s spat, but Monroe couldn’t take his eyes off the strange mage who smiled at him so pleasantly. It didn’t touch his eyes.

Ryuko stood and extended a hand. To Monroe. “Let’s get back. That ghost’ll follow its tether until the Watchtowers fall.”

“You don’t have to hold hands, you know,” muttered Jack as he stepped in the circle. “He’s just being a drama queen.”

Monroe exchanged a look with the women and they agreed silently to listen to the bizarre human mage on matters of magic rather than their Gangrel greaser. As the terrible pain engulfed him again, the ghost’s unearthly shriek followed them. The deathsight in the forlorn theatre greeted them and the Beast returned to rest heavy on their souls. White fire flashed as Jack burned the necklace. The ghost’s last shriek faded off into the silence.

“See?” said Ryuko pleasantly, patting Jack on the shoulder. “Another routine fill-up, for my vial and powers. Casper put down. You had a holiday in the early twentieth century. No harm done. I got to meet your groovy friends.”

Jack pointed a threatening finger to him. “Leave it.”

“I got to see the sun again,” offered Charlie unhelpfully.

Jack groaned, but Ryuko only beamed.

“See? Everything’s coming up aces.” Ryuko indicated the theatre around them. “The deathsight won’t fade, that’s just what it looks like so close to an Abyssal nexus for death-touched, but maybe we should get out of here. Get a drink or — crack open a… neck for you fine fanged creatures.”

“No,” said Jack in a stiff, hard voice Monroe had never heard him use before. “They’re gonna head home. Thank you very much, guys, but we should really all forget that Ryu exists.”

The hard voice left his eyes untouched, dark and desperate and pleading. Monroe put a hand on Jack’s shoulder and steered them to the door.

“Of course,” he said. “Let’s get you home, Jack. It was a pleasure to meet you, Ryuko.”

Jack breathed a sigh of relief as they left the projection room. Zari didn’t even attempt to hide how happy she was they had gotten him back, clinging to him as they left.

“I can heal,” called Ryuko. “Enchant you charms. I can scry through the leylines of the city, see what your enemies are doing, who and what they love.”

Monroe didn’t stop, but he had brought up the rear and he missed a step. It took all his effort to continue walking. A hermit. A mage no other Anarch knew even existed. Jack knew that he would be tempted. He saw the look on Monroe’s face.

“Please,” he said again.

Ryuko’s smile had slipped off his face and he became an entirely different creature, one Monroe was infinitely more capable of dealing with. “What would you offer me?” he asked.

“ _ Please _ .”

Ryuko jerked his chin towards Jack. There was no anger, no impatience, only a coldness that could’ve rivaled any ruthless kindred Monroe had ever met. “I’m not a child, Jack. I can think for myself — defend myself, analyze danger for myself, and, despite what you may want, strike a bargain.”

“Monroe.” Jack’s hand clung into his jacket.

“What do you want?” asked Monroe.

Ryuko lifted the vial on the chain around his neck. “More of this rocket fuel.”

“How much?”

“Lots.”

There was a glint of greed, maybe madness in Ryuko’s eyes. Monroe loved dealing with people who were so forthright about what they wanted. Greed was a common vice, one easy to supply.

“Ryuko, if I want something, there is nothing in this world or the next that has the power to stop me. If the time comes where I would hire you, I will make it worth your while.”

Ryuko tapped out another cigarette and considered him. “Jack, give us a minute.”

“Ryu—”

“I said a minute.”

Jack’s hand slipped from Monroe’s shoulder and he retreated down the stairwell, head hung low. Later, when Garcia was dead and they were once again at peace, Monroe would summon the will to feel bad.

Ryuko lit up and Monroe suppressed the cringe at the flame. “Ghosts have tethers,” he said, advancing on him. “Things that keep them on this world. In my experience, the red strings are much the same thing. You’ve got a string that goes into your pocket. What’s in there?”

Bewildered, Monroe took out a set of keys and his Blackberry. Ryuko mouthed the cigarette and spun through the keys, holding up a small brass key. 

Monroe stiffened, prepared to disregard any foul humour at his expense.

“Would you like to see it again?” asked Ryuko softly.

Longing was an emotion Monroe was quite unfamiliar with and unable to fight off with any strength. 

“Yes,” he said in a small voice.

Ryuko unstoppered the vial and tapped the blood against his fingers. As he slicked the invisible thread in midair, the string attaching the key to him, it became physical. “Hold on to it,” he said. “As long as you want. This is a down payment on you and me.”

Stupid. Incredibly stupid. He should thank him for the opportunity and leave, promptly. 

Monroe grabbed the string slick with his blood. It wasn’t physical, but a reverberating psychic tremble. Almost instantly, Ryuko’s angled inquisitive face vanished and a new scene took its place.

Osgood. Broadway. Three flights up. Apartment 32.

He hadn’t seen it in sixty years. His apartment. The one parents had rented when his dad had taken them to California in search of gold. The one his mother had drank herself to death in when he didn’t come down from the hills. The one he had died in. Despite his alterations as a neonate, the apartment was fundamentally unchanged.

Worn greying floorboards. Walls full of artwork purchased on the advice of salon Toreador. Couch. Radio. In the early 1940s, the kitchen had been very modern. Now, it was a time capsule of a life he hadn’t had in years. Dust and cobwebs had made their homes. There, in the corner, the rocking chair his mother had liked. The chair he had died in. A brown bloodstain. His blood, from when his sire had shot him dead before Embracing him.

Monroe stepped forward, numb. The floors creaked in a familiar way, spoke to something that was more than memory. He pushed aside the drapes. Dust clung to his fingers. Real. The city skyline had changed, highlighted with a pink twilight before the bay. San Francisco. The longing hurt with a physical pain.

Here, he had enjoyed a degree of popularity and respect as the eldest childe of the Ventrue Primogen. He had clan cousins, blood-siblings, even a Toreador girl he had courted. Now, she was dead, like all the old Camarilla of San Francisco. It was a place where sensuous Toreador adorned themselves in art and beauty at elysium salons, rather than becoming addled creatures like Ashley Swan. Even if a shaded lie, every kindred faced each other cordially, with honour and not fists.

Here, he had been his sire’s slave, a hammer of Clan Ventrue, desperately clinging to a half-life granted to him by monsters many times his own age. He had learned to be a murderer who did not ask questions, who expected nothing and thanked when thrown crumbs.

Here, he had been at peace and had a home.

Monroe unclenched his hand around the string and the vision faded. He couldn’t take anymore. It was only a memory long dead, a dream not to come true. It wasn’t real.

He still felt the dust between his fingers, the smell of the city in his nose.

Monroe tensed as Ryuko laid a hand on him. Without his smile, despite his apparent youth, there was something very cold and very old about him.

“I don’t want any business to hurt Jack,” said Monroe.

Ryuko laughed without a smile. “Oh, dear Jack. It’s like this. We argue. We yell. Maybe we don’t meet up for a few weeks. Then, he comes around with a bunch of gas station flowers, a shit movie, and everything is forgiven. Let me deal with Jack. I’ve had fifty years practice.”

“You’re… more than friends, then?” Monroe struggled for a polite term. He had a feeling  _ homo _ was no longer in vogue.

He snorted. “Sure. I’m a committed bachelor. I’m a friend of Dorothy. I wear sensible shoes.”

Monroe raised an eyebrow. “You’re wearing Crocs.”

Ryuko inspected them. “So I am. Very sensible. Good for running away from ghosts.”

The bad fashion didn’t dissuade him. Fifty years, and the mage didn’t look a day older than Jack, who had been Embraced shortly before his twenty-fifth birthday. He was powerful, greedy, and lonely. Jack was right to keep him a hermit. Ryuko could be easily exploited. Lucky for him, it would only be Monroe.

“Thank you,” he said simply, extending a hand. “Where can I find you, if I need you?”

Ryuko shrugged and indicated the rough sleeping bag and rubbish in the corner. “Maybe the Four Seasons. Got a mansion in the hills.”

“I’ll come here.”

“Jack said you were smart.”

Monroe felt a little bit like scum leaving the theatre, deliberately going against Jack’s wishes with his lover. In the lobby, only Charlie and Hawthorne remained. Jack, apparently, got Zari to give him a ride, pronto.

There was so much to say about such a bizarre night, but ultimately words had not yet been invented to discuss them. The walk to the car was long, cold, and quiet, and not helped by the rain that began to fall. With every step, the weight of stress and fear on Monroe’s shoulders began to lift ever so slightly. Jack was still alive. He was safe. Hopefully, if he vanished again, they would have a better idea of where to find him. And Ryuko. That was interesting. 

None of them spoke a word as Hawthorne started the car. This time, she obeyed the laws of the road and delivered Charlie back to her house smoothly.

Monroe stepped out with Charlie. Surprised, she didn’t open the door as they lingered on her porch. The rain continued heavily above their heads.

“I don’t know what happened or what decision you’ve reached,” he said. “I don’t need to know if you don’t want me to, but, thank you for trusting us. Thank you for saving my life.” She shrugged impassively. “Are you alright?”

“I don’t know,” she said with a sigh. “I thought, maybe, I was special. That there was some meaning to the Cobweb. I mean…” Her eyes clung to something only she could see. “Maybe I thought the world was supposed to be fair, give me something back.”

“The world doesn’t work like that, but that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve it.”

She waved a melodramatic hand. “Don’t mind me, I’m falling to pieces in slow motion.”

“I do mind you,” he said. He stepped closer and she pressed herself against the door. “In fact, ‘minding you’ is the primary purpose of Accounting. Tell me, what’s wrong?”

Charlie raised her eyes to meet his. “I’m not a very good person,” she said determinedly. “I’m selfish and violent and don’t know what I’m doing most of the time.”

“Good people don’t exist,” he said, and none too gently. “Being good is not natural, especially not to us. At the end of the night, you have to be able to live with what you do because it will be your actions that haunt you, not any assertions of you being good or evil — whatever those even mean. We are always someone else’s villain.” He tripped over a smile. “If it helps, no one knows what they’re doing.”

Charlie returned the smile, however shaky. “It does, a little.”

“A little is better than nothing.”

“I don’t like being someone’s villain,” she confessed.

“I know.”

The rain filled her silence, thick heavy drops that plinked against the eaves and flowed against the siding. Hawthorne killed the idling engine. Charlie’s hand lingered on the paneling of her house. Words failed her. When she faced him again, her eyes were deeply sad and glistened.

“I’m not human,” she said.

Monroe stepped closer again. She shuddered and, as her spoken words stole her strength, she wrapped her arms around him. He returned the embrace and stroked her hair, wet as it was. Her sorrow and longing echoed in his cold dead chest.

“I know,” he said simply, as she began to cry. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who's a fan of MtA or MtAw, Ryuko doesn't strictly follow either canon, though his knowledge of mage lore is heavily inspired by MtAw. He has some lost notes from a MtAw House of Ariadne mage, and his abilities don't line up to spheres (comparable to Vampire Disciplines) perfectly. Though, he might be somewhere along Mind 1 (auras, the red strings), Life 2 (healing, with Matter for healing undead), Matter 2, Prime 3 (enchanting, with Matter), Space 4 (warping), Time 5 (travel, gazing). Also noteworthy is that, as a human mage in his seventies (regardless what he looks like), he is basically at the end of a lifetime of magic study and, in Mage, considered very powerful.


	13. Out of Reach

Charlie was beginning to understand that vampires liked their wheels. Zari’s sleek silver Mercedes, Monroe’s SUVs. Now that she could remember it with new eyes, she remembered Greystone’s parking lot had a bunch of shiny rides, too. She felt a bit like a troll with her red Toyota, but Jack seemed to be the last person to complain about that mystery stain on the passenger’s seat.

“Sorry,” she said anyway as he crawled in.

Jack snorted. “Can’t wait until we can both take wings.”

Charlie grinned. “Like, bats?”

He returned the smile. “Yeah. Everyone who uses Protean gets the bat and wolf, both black and huge, but Gangrel get our own forms in addition. I’ve seen vultures, bears, even a moose once.”

“Damn,” she said, starting the car and pulling out of Blue Moon’s parking lot. “Wish a Gangrel had turned me.”

Jack opened and shut his mouth, before shaking his head and perching his mouth on a fist as he gazed out the window.

“What?”

“I… Just saying, Malkavians got their bonuses, too.”

Charlie frowned. “Like  _ what _ ?”

Jack bared his teeth, embarrassed. “Like… the strings. He said you could see the city’s leylines.”

She bristled. “If you want to talk Cobweb, you’re gonna talk about him, too.”

For several miles, Jack picked at his dirt-encrusted fingernails. “What do you wanna know?”

Charlie shrugged and thumped the steering wheel. “I don’t know. What’s his favourite colour?”

“Green,” he said dully.

“He’s still human, right? Does he have a favourite food?”

“Spicy ramen.”

“Can we go ghost hunting with him?”

“No.”

Put out, Charlie sighed. This was worse than pulling teeth. “Are ghosts cool, as well as terrifying?”

Jack’s shoulders sunk. “Sometimes. He mainly uses them to boost his powers, which… I mean, they were people, once. Young ghosts still are in a lot of ways.”

“How did you two meet?”

He spared her a glare but relented with a sigh. “We… I met him in high school. We were friends, then, and met up a couple years later. I was working as a plumber and had a job at the theatre. He was squatting there, even then, and…” He shook his head. “He asked me to dinner.”

Charlie didn’t even know where to begin processing that. “You were a  _ plumber _ ?”

“Yeah. Union rep and everything.” Jack licked his fangs anxiously. “Skelter was big into labour unions. Still is. We were friends. He turned me, ruined that friendship. I left Downtown early on, found Ryu again, and he told me he was a mage and that was that. Life’s been a mad chase trying to keep up with that bastard. I…”

The way he called Ryuko a bastard, with a flickering ghost of a smile and warmth in his voice, made Charlie smile.

“I’m glad you’re not alone,” she said, only a little jealous that she didn’t have a weird and unsettling pocket gay witch for herself. “Are there others like him?”

Jack shrugged. “He’s never met one and I’ve never met another lick that’s met a mage. Doubt he’s the only one in the world but his kind’s a lot rarer than ours. We can sire, but mages are born.”

“So, I don’t get a Hermione to your Harry Potter?” she teased. When Jack didn’t respond and, in fact, only stiffened more awkwardly, she frowned. “What’s wrong? Are you worried about him?”

“Yes,” he said impatiently. “And, no. But, I mean. I feed off my little black book of women. Even in my breathing days, I worked hard to look good and my buddies knew me as a womanizer. I just—”

Charlie stared out the windshield, lost for words. “There’s nothing wrong with being bi — or gay,” she said, confused. “Or lesbian.”

“I’m not —” Jack groaned. “This isn’t about you. There’s nothing wrong with it, it’s just wrong for me.”

“Say that to Ryu.”

He flinched. “Don’t call him that, please.”

“Well, I guess if you’re not ready to come out, we can pretend we didn’t meet him?” she said, her voice raising in uncertainty. 

Jack nodded his thanks.

Charlie turned off the freeway and slowed down as the large neighbourhood of UCLA bore down on them. Stark medical center, hipster shopping district with cafes and overpriced boutiques that were always empty, and the mix of old and new campus buildings.

“I was getting better,” he admitted out of the blue. “You’ll hear the older Vs say it sometimes, that, when we’re turned, we’re sort of stuck. The stasis makes us not age physically but mentally, too. It’s also why teen vampires are such a nightmare — eternal puberty. We can’t adjust to tech and new advancements so easy. I’m sure you think I’m crazy. Nearly fifty years with one guy and I can’t admit it, but… I was raised in a different family, a different time. Takes a long time for our kind to outgrow that.”

Charlie grimaced. She knew she should probably consider herself lucky, in that, if nothing else. Her mother had known, at least, even if Charlie had never tested that with a girlfriend. Jack was right. Different family, different time.

“I’m sorry,” she said weakly.

“Do I get to ask you about the Cobweb now?” he asked with a wary smile.

Charlie’s grimace deepened, but she let him pester her about it, though he didn’t like the answers. She didn’t see the red strings all the time, didn’t even know how to turn them on, or even  _ monkeybar _ as Jack called swinging across time and space as Ryuko did it. 

“I’m a vampire, not a mage, what do you expect?” she asked with a shrug.

“Fine,” he said unwillingly. “Maybe the Professor has some ideas.”

“How d’you know him?”

Jack’s smile cracked genuinely. “We go way back. He heard about some lost Gangrel fledgling in the seventies and high-tailed it to the adoption office.”

Charlie found them a parking spot not far off from the building she had last found the Professor in, a psychology and humanities building. 

“Just remember we’re here for the January article,” she said determinedly.

“I’m glad you two Malks got together,” he said brightly as they loped across the quad. With someone else, the dark abandoned campus didn’t seem so lonely. “I would’ve brought him up, but Monroe’s another adoption type of lick, didn’t want to step on his toes.”

“Why did you leave the Professor, then?” she asked. “Anything I should know about?”

Jack snorted. “Yeah. He’s not picky about the new bats he fosters. You met Rhys. Wait until you get a noseful of Dogface.”

“Noseful? Do I even want to know?”

“Remind me to tell you about Nosferatu when hell freezes over,” said Jack brightly. “Damn good thing they keep to themselves.”

He opened the door to the building and swiftly shattered the liminal space’s silence. “Hey, Prof! Knock, knock,” he called.

“Is that Jack Shen?” came a voice from behind a door. 

The old office chair creaked from inside, but Jack all but leapt to the door and got there first and threw it open. Like before, Charlie was struck by how normal he looked, if a bit out of date, like a caricature of his title — ironed khaki chinos and a sweater vest with overlarge Coke bottle glasses. She half expected to find him smoking a pipe. The Professor greeted him with a jubilant laugh and Jack hugged him tight enough to pick him off the floor. By the time he set him down, Charlie was all but forgotten in the hallway.

“How are you?” demanded the Professor. “That shelter, what was it called? Memorial?”

Jack’s head bobbed up and down. “Sage Memory—”

“—North Central LA Humane Center and Veterinary Clinic,” they finished together.

“Great,” said Jack. “We’ve been having a rough time lately, so I haven’t gone as often as I’d want. I’d love you to come around. I was thinking of Celeste when we got a brown and orange set of speckled twins.”

Something tickled Charlie about that and, as soon as she realised why, she stuffed the suspicion down. Secrets, given out of coterie. Was it a secret, though? Rubio knew they had hunters on their tail. Everyone had a rough time.

The Professor smiled. “Oh, that’s so sweet. If you think they could still go to a good home—”

“I’m saying you’re a good home,” said Jack determinedly.

“Alright,” he relented, raising his hands and chuckling. “Is there anything I can do about this rough time?”

Jack shrugged. “Not really. How’s Math Class?” he asked. “How’re your boys doing?”

The Professor peered around Jack and spotted Charlie in the hall. “They’re all doing great. Dogface has really begun to express himself, productively work out his anger. You know Nosferatu, their adjustment to our life is never easy. Speaking of fledglings…” He rose an eyebrow.

“Oh, shit,” said Jack, stepping side. “Yeah, so Charlie’s getting on  _ The Fifth Estate _ ’s writing department. Zari sent us for the January article.”

“Don’t swear,” said the Professor mildly. “Please, come in, you two.”

As those warm eyes met hers, Charlie found herself overcome with a smile in her chest. “Hey, Professor,” she said awkwardly as they sat. A picture on his desk, a tabby cat on a princess cushion, drew her eye.

“Is that crew down Silver Lake taking care of you? Are you eating? How are you adjusting?” he asked, and he seemed genuinely interested in the answers. It made her feel bad about being suspicious.

“I mean, as well as I could expect,” she said. “Still pretty new to all of this.”

“Don’t be modest,” said Jack. He slapped her on the back with enough force to knock the breath from her lungs. “She’s doing great. The captain and we’ve had some setbacks, but Charlie here’s made of rubber. I’m making sure she’s eating.”

The Professor folded his weathered hands across his desk and smiled. “That’s good. I try to take a vested interest in all of LA’s new fledglings, but we all have our own journey and some parts of it need to be taken with others — or alone.”

His voice lingered on the last word, almost like a warning or threat, though his eyes stayed fixed on Charlie, blank dark brown pits that swallowed her, deeper and deeper— 

Jack scoffed and Charlie just about had a heart attack. “She’s doing great. Silver Lake’s still in MacNeil’s Barony of Angels, so we’re not kicking shit with any other gangs over stupid turf wars. You know Monroe, she’s not hurting for money.”

“And how is Matthew Monroe?” asked the Professor. “It’s been a while since we talked.”

Jack opened his mouth but Charlie got there first.

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” she demanded. “Is it a secret where he is every night?” 

“Charlie,” Jack snapped with a hard look, but the Professor raised a hand.

“It’s alright, Jack,” he said. “Coming into this world, under a Ventrue no less, is bound to make any fledgling mistrustful.”

“Sorry,” said Charlie, shoveling down her questions under a mountain of self-restraint. 

What, exactly, was wrong with Ventrues? A particular inflection, a distasteful curl of the Professor’s lips said more than he did. Was she supposed to be mistrustful of Monroe? Seeing as vampires kept wanting to kill and torture, maybe mistrust was a healthy trait.  _ Forgive him _ , she reminded herself. There wasn’t a whole lot to forgive, really.

This wasn’t the time or place, though. Zari sent her to do a job and damn it, she would do it. Charlie steered the conversation hard towards the Professor’s classes, which, it seemed, he would like nothing more than to discuss at incredible length. January was the month of new beginnings and he liked to hit the ground running. Literally. Celerity, vampiric Discipline of speed, was a common power among Anarchs but physical Disciplines came easily to every clan and it made for an easy lesson. Every Monday and Thursday, eight to eleven. Then, on Wednesday nights, he decided to start a class on the Revolts. After all, he had been there that fateful night in 1944 when MacNeil and Garcia led the charge on the Camarilla prince’s hacienda. Now, most Anarchs were young bloods or transplants, but he felt a need to unify the masses under the mythology of those early nights.

“Maybe you would come?” he asked hopefully. “I promise, my lectures aren’t that boring. Even — and Jack will tell you — Dogface has managed to set up some PowerPoint slides.”

Jack smiled. “Dog did. It’s about his only redeeming trait.”

“Jack, be nice. Remember—”

“ ‘Value is on the inside’, got it,” he grumbled. “Still, he always was an ass — jerk, a real jerkface.”

Charlie smirked as she finished writing her notes. “It’s not like I’ve got a job to do,” she said brightly, but a feeling nagged her gut. Just mistrust, but maybe she should be getting used to that. “I’ll come. Is there a final?”

“I don’t assign projects for these classes, but I will always grade them,” he said in solemn answer to her joke.

She amused herself by thinking of writing up a vampire essay on the revolution. Maybe she’d even ace the class. Charlie had never aced a class before. Maybe she could only do it over her dead body.

“Hey, what was that about?” asked Jack when they left.

Charlie started the car. “What was what?”

“That attitude you gave the Prof. Am I missing something?”

She shrugged. “He’s triggering my spidey senses. I know, I sound like a freak—”

“You met Ryuko,” he said grimly. “You got some stiff competition there.”

Charlie swallowed her reply. It wasn’t the same. Even if magic wasn’t a kind of science, it still had a reasonable cause and effect — even if it was nonsense. Vampire blood powered precise runed circles which let others step into other times as ghosts. Her ugly feeling had no beginning or end, no reason to mistrust someone who had only ever been kind to her, who Jack loved as a sire, who had only done good for the community.

Compulsively, she checked the rearview windows all the way home. Each time, dark brown blank eyes behind thick spectacles stared out the sky.

  
  


Monroe did not have a flair for the dramatics. He did not take vengeance, even petty as it was. Still, he could not hide the fact from himself that, when making contact with reluctant allies who would rather see him dead, he tended to break into their homes and await their arrival. Not unlike the Ace of Spades had done to him. It was professional, he insisted. It established dominance, power, and put the target on edge. Hawthorne had the window of the seedy by-the-hour motel under view of a sniper from a car down the lane. He wouldn’t have her in the same room with the hunter again. A bullet would also give him a brief advantage of surprise.

As he waited, he perused the domain of the hunter who had felled dozens of kindred.  _ Domain _ might’ve been a tad excessive. The only people who knew she existed were Garcia, his inner circle, and Monroe.

At first glance, it could be any kindred’s bunkhole. Garbage bags duct-taped over the windows, duffle bags thrown against the wall, but curiously absent of blood bags. She drank vitae. The manager confirmed she had paid upfront in cash for three months. 

Monroe rifled through her duffle bags and found them painfully sparse. Clothes, hats, sunglasses, jackets. Nothing personal, not even on the tables. Maps and notes spread across the bedspread, with a guide to LA being the only book. If he had Hawthorne’s skills, he could’ve unlocked the laptop, but he knew what he would find. Her life was sustained by hunting — vitae, for sustenance, murder, for purpose. No religious iconography, the TV remote surrounded by dust, no books or films. Nothing to suggest a life.

Monroe ran a finger along the drain of the bathtub. It hadn’t been cleaned in weeks, like everything else in the room, and a pink scum stain clung to the rim. Scum and blood, he decided, picking it out of his nail. 

A key turned in the door. To her enduring credit, Ace did not react at all to seeing Monroe sitting on her bed. She had been hunting, clearly. Black fatigues tucked into military surplus boots, a windbreaker pulled high over her white blonde hair, soft gloves to prevent fingerprints.

“How did you find me?” she asked coolly, turning on the lights.

“Your car. I had a security camera outside my house. It picked up your plate and I followed it here.”

She threw a backpack aside and sauntered towards her duffle bags, throwing off her jacket to the floor. Despite her casual movement, her broad shoulders tensed. “Could’ve stolen the car.”

“I bet you did.” Was her skin a touch warmer, more natural, less corpse-like? “Clearly, our arrangement is insufficient. If you don’t want Garcia to catch up—”

Ace turned to face him, her lips curled in disgust. “Don’t say that name.”

Monroe acquiesced. The blood bond would’ve flushed her with devotion, longing, fear. It was intentional. “He knows what you are. He knows enough of the bond to know you couldn’t leave LA. If kindred start going missing, he will be able to track you here, just as well as I have.”

The shadows, which she had kept in check for now, began to flutter and the Beast snapped its jaws at the Abyss.

She gave him a stony stare. “I am not having that conversation with  _ you _ .”

“I’m not here to argue about sustenance. Ideally, I would prefer if you didn’t kill our kind,” he said peacefully. He reached across for her notebook and her eyes narrowed as he touched her things. “But I am not an idealist. I am a realist.” Monroe scrawled three names in the back of her book, as well as addresses and descriptions. “Garcia won’t investigate every missing. He mostly cares about the Brujah and his own. Feed sparingly, and this can probably sustain you until I deal with Garcia.”

She laughed, bitter and cold. “You think betraying your kind is going to make me trust you?”

He shrugged. “These are nobodies. People I’ve met in passing. If the alternative is to have you rampaging blind across LA, likely as not to kill my coterie, my allies—”

“Not ‘friends’? Of course, movie monsters don’t get friends,” she said pleasantly, but her humour had wavered and the shadows betrayed an emotion beside malovance. Bitterness, hope soured by their cold life in the darkness.

Perhaps, in a different time, Monroe could’ve come across a vengefully Embraced Lasombra fledgling and ingratiated her into their world. He had a dread feeling that opportunity had passed some years ago. Even so, he felt compelled to try.

“I spared you,” he said, more kindly than the sharp-edged hunter deserved. “I should’ve killed you. Even if you didn’t act of your free will, you tried to kill me and mine. You’ve hunted our kind for years. I showed you mercy, though. I’m not the monster you think I am — and you aren’t either.”

“That means nothing,” she said. Her rough expression hardened.

“I spared your life. You—”

Ace’s smile twisted. “I know how your kind thinks. Every now and then, you spare one would-be victim. It’s how you murder hundreds. It’s how you live with yourself. It’s how you lie and say you aren’t a monster. Because, when your wind blows in the right direction, you  _ happen _ to be kind.”

Monroe couldn’t deny the bodycount. He sighed out the anger and composed himself.

“Our kind,” he reminded her coldly. “Our natural state is cruelty and selfishness. Any act of kindness is a choice. Even you, in your own way. I can’t deny that the aim of destroying a magical parasite that preys on humanity is noble, if misguided.”

She chuckled and picked the gloves off her fingers. “You think I kill vampires because I’m  _ noble _ ?” Her lips twisted the word into a curse.

The Lasombra Beast would’ve corrupted the motivation, he knew, just as every Beast twisted every clan. Maybe it enjoyed the chase, the hunt, the slaughter. Maybe it reveled in cruelty and sadism. Who knew how much of the young hunter remained?

“You were human, once,” he said gently. “You didn’t start hunting because of what the Beast did to you.”

Ace’s lips peeled back and fangs, jagged and curved, lowered. “Don’t play games with me. What do you want? Me to stop hunting? Great, apparently I’ve got three more hits. What happens when they run out?”

“We will come to another solution,” he said as the shadows jerked at his pant legs. A tendril rose threateningly from the inky shadow sea that pooled around him, but he only took a business card from his jacket. “Find me, if you need to. I will certainly find you.”

Ace cautiously picked up her book. “Got a question for you.”

“Anything,” he said, knowing he would regret it.

“There used to a Society chapter here,” she said. Her breath hitched the smallest degree, but she ploughed on. “What happened to them?”

Ashley Swan happened to them. Monroe had ideas of where they were now. Maybe ten inquisitors in total, Ashley had entertained himself. Likely ghouled them, probably kept them as security, relying on Presence and the blood bond to break them. Maybe they were blood dolls, passed around a circulatory system Monroe scarce knew of, fed on with gleeful irony.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I could find out for you, if you would like.”

She tore the page from the book and crumpled it. “Vampires happened to them,” she cursed.

“Probably,” he said. He sighed as he remembered the night at Beverly Glen, leaving Orsay at Charlie’s first night, and being set on by a few scattered inquisitors sent by Ace. “They were friends of yours?”

“Give me the name of the vampire who killed them,” she said. Every word ripped like glass from her throat. “Otherwise—”

The unspoken threat didn’t faze Monroe, not even when the tides rose and the pinching tendrils curled into his pockets. Ace’s eyebrows twitched in confusion.

“I can’t promise that,” he said. “The perpetrator might be a linchpin of LA, untouchable. Almost surely, since Garcia’s had a bounty on the Society for decades.”

At the mention of the name again, Ace flinched like he had slapped her. When she recovered herself, the shadows slunk to her protectively. “Get out of here,” she said.

“Do we understand each other?”

“I said—”

“Do we understand each other?”

“I…” Ace grimaced. “Yes.”

Monroe left.

It took a surprising distance before Ace’s power over the shadows abated and the darkness returned to its natural state. Nearly two blocks. As he found the SUV further away, Hawthorne approached from her own hiding spot across the street.

“How did it go?” she asked as started the car.

“Uncertain. Her ignorance of kindred LA could prove useful, if we could gain her trust a little more.” That, surely, had been Garcia’s thought. A hunter and personal assassin, a contract killer to the local power. Camarilla called them scourges.

“Dawson gave me some bad news,” said Hawthrone, startling him from his thoughts.

“Oh?”

“A group of three men died in the Land of Nod two hours ago after a nasty fight. Dawson is thinking PCP overdoses. The owner is frantic.”

Monroe grimaced. Most clubs had one. A closet, a door marked  _ Employees Only _ , a couch in the back — somewhere to stuff the passed out drunks or druggies until they sobered enough to throw into a taxi. Most of the patrons left with nothing more than a stubborn hangover and a cool story.  _ Hey, man, I woke up in this closet.  _ For most of Dawson’s employ, part of his job was to ferry them to the ER. 

There could be two culprits. All he could hope was that they hadn’t worked together.

“I need to make a call,” he said unfortunately. “Deal with the owner.”

He didn’t even bother putting the cell phone to his ear. It rang five times before an operator declared it disconnected. Then, he called twice more. On the fourth, Ashley Swan picked up.

“I have to say, I only give this number to people I can’t stand. That is quite a long list, too.” His voice echoed back behind him, as though in an empty warehouse.

“It’s Monroe,” he said shortly, resigning himself to Ashley’s antics, if only for a moment.

“Ah. My favourite autarkis. What brings you crawling to me this fine night?” He could hear the slimy smile through the connection.

“Did you deal in Blue Moon tonight?”

“I do most nights.”

“You don’t sound like you’re there right now.”

“There are a great many of me, sweetheart.”

“Do you deal PCP?”

Ashley snorted. “If mortal trash want to buy it, I’m willing to supply it.”

Monroe ground his fangs. “If you want to call that major boon one night, maybe you should ensure I live to deliver on it.”

Ashley didn’t respond for a moment, but his voice could cut glass and Monroe breathed a sigh of relief. This Ashey was one he could deal with.

“You know I don’t bring in anything off your blacklist,” he said curtly. “Not since we shook on our deal.” He paused. “You have my pity, though, about Garcia.”

“You know.” It wasn’t a question. If Ashley wanted a barony, he would keep an eye on the old guard. Despite the lingering fact that Ashley did not have the capacity for pity, relief washed through him. That would make this easier.

“I do. My assistance is not free, as you are well aware.”

“Then, I will die and we both lose,” said Monroe indifferently. “I will not let you dangle me on a rope and extort me as a debt slave.”

Ashley ripped the phone from his ear and stomped away from whatever gathering he had been a part of, cursing. “I hate Ventrue,” he snarled. “Did I ever tell you? That sword and scepter up your ass and all that sticky blue blood in your veins. You actually would die for your damned pride.”

Monroe felt no inclination to correct him. He let the quiet tense around Ashley like a vise. It took some time. Many minutes. Monroe exchanged a weary look with Hawthorne, then put himself on mute.

“Make sure you cover up the fight,” he told her. “Tell Dawson to deal with the bodies and police. I don’t want a media storm, especially if the FBI could still have an eye on me. And deal with the owner. You know, unless I must, I’d rather not remember he exists.”

“Of course,” she said. Her lip quirked. “How is Mr Swan?”

“One night, I’ll stake him and sink him to the bottom of the ocean.”

“I’ll fight off his childer,” she added.

Monroe snorted, then realised Ashley had found his voice again. It was far less confident than before.

“I am willing to protect my prize — to a degree,” he added in a hurry, “but if you expect me to Danse with the Anarch Prince on  _ your _ behalf, you have another thing coming, my friend.”

“I’m not asking you to do anything out of your ordinary,  _ friend _ ,” said Monroe with the same insulting tone. “Just as you keep out mortal dealers and gangs, I want you to keep Garcia and El Hermandad out of Silver Lake.”

“ _ Silver Lake _ ?” repeated Ashley dimly. “Silver — Monroe,” he said in a voice that clearly questioned his level headedness. “Garcia is baron over most of the city. With East LA and all of MacNeil’s Angels—”

“Fine, then just Blue Moon. Give me a patch of dirt from his influence,” said Monroe irritably, as though it hadn’t been his idea the whole time. “I know that the critters down Sunset don’t give you the same leeway I do. You’d hate to see my operation go under, almost as much as me.”

Ashley groaned, but wasn’t so gullible as to be roped so easily. “I’ll do it,” he said bitterly. “But not for free. I want a minor.”

“I thought we were partners,” said Monroe, hurt.

“Don’t play coy bleeding heart with  _ me _ ,” he snapped. “Business partners, emphasis on  _ business _ . Give and take. I’ll let you take, but you will give.”

“My honour—”

“Means shit to me. Minor boon.” Ashley laughed freely. “Minor, or I can give Garcia your head myself. He’s already given me a patronizing little pat on the head. Oh, a Toreador banishing those troublesome Society hunters! Dearie me, did he break a nail?”

The sarcasm badly concealed his wounded pride. Whatever Ashley thought of Monroe, Ashley’s pride was far more delicate. Monroe breathed a sigh of relief. Ashley loathed Garcia.

“You know, well as I, that the Danse will escalate until either Garcia or I are dead,” said Monroe. “Help me and Angels will open up. What would you say to Beverly Hills? Or Hollywood, since Abrams left it in stewardship to MacNeil and now Garcia? Echo? Los Feliz? Century City?”

Ashley clicked his fangs against his teeth as he thought. Monroe resisted the urge to keep pestering him. He couldn’t beg. Ashley would remember if he begged.

“Fifty-fifty,” said Ashley at last. “I’m sure you’ll use Angels’ freedom to go indie. Let me join Switzerland. We’ll have trade routes, treaties, whatever you Ventrue need to get hard. If you survive the Danse, I’ll cut the minor for a guarantee of joint domain.”

“Ash,” said Monroe, confused, “I thought that was always our agreement.”

“Oh. Well, then. Owe me a minor.”

“Fine. I’ll pay it back after the Danse.” As soon as Monroe gave a stipulation, he knew he should’ve kept his damned mouth shut.

“Pay it now. Get Velvet Velour to allow Delilah on the floor of Vesuvius.”

And Ashley knew he was desperate enough to do his bidding, no matter how mild or severe the request. It was only pride. Whatever business he had with his abandoned childe, it wasn’t Monroe’s concern, though he made a point to remember it.

Monroe turned to Hawthorne, who he knew heard the conversation. She nodded absently. Velvet wasn’t the biggest fan of ghouls, but they had a cordial relationship. At worst, Zari could talk to her. Monroe had made it a mission to gather discontented and lost fledglings for years. Ashley left a trail of breadcrumbs. Zari. Velvet Velour, who strayed to Abrams. Alice Zhao, who worked in Blue Moon and was Delilah’s runaway childe.

“It’ll be done,” he said. “Minor settled. Now, keep Garica out of Sunset Junction.”

“As you command, Your Highness,” said Ashley snidely before hanging up.

Monroe hung up at the dial tone. “Sorry about that,” he said to Hawthorne. “First, I took you out of UCLA. Now, you’re running errands for Ashley Swan who, apparently, has dreams of his childe on a pole.”

“I’m sure a great many dreams,” said Hawthorne, but when he didn’t smile she grimaced. “It’s alright,” she said unconvincingly. “I still have the syllabus and material from my classes, so even if they don’t let me do correspondence the rest of term, I’ll finish it on my own.”

Monroe made a mental note to go by UCLA when this was over and Dominate her professors. 

“What were they this term? A computer science course and what?”

“History.”

“Ah, of course,” he said fondly. “What is it this time?”

Hawthorne tried and failed to keep the smile off her face. “Postwar Japan Through Cinema. I thought it sounded interesting.”

“Is it?”

“Honestly, it is. I sometimes wish I had put the same effort into film as I did music,” she said wistfully. “Of course, now they are ‘retro’ and ‘vintage’, but we could’ve seen them in theatre. We had just started on the idol eiga, which had only really begun because — sorry,” she said. A blush crept up her collar and she tightened her grip on the wheel.

“I’d like to hear about it,” he said.

Hawthorne glanced to him, then relaxed. “Cinema began to decline in the seventies, due to the rise of television, so they began to make films starring famous idols to bring in crowds. We had been discussing whether or not the writing and production suffered and if they used the stars as crutches…”

Hawthorne had spent most of the last sixty years going to college at least part-time and Monroe knew from experience that he had opened the floodgates. He struggled to follow most of it, but knew where to make the appropriate appreciative noises and a clarifying question. It didn’t fool her for long.

“I’ll put on  _ Seven Samurai  _ when we get back,” she promised. “It’s easier to understand when you actually watch them.”

“I’ll take your word on it.”

A snappy call to Dawson, surely relieved to do normal human duties, and they had the night free to themselves. Hawthorne started dinner for herself before she even took off her coat.

“Are you still interested in watching it?” she called. Pans clanged in the kitchen and the oven beeped.

“So long as there’s subtitles,” he said, taking off his jacket. “I never learned Japanese…” His hand dipped in the pocket, on reflex, to toss aside his keys. Gradually, then all at once, his mind came to a standstill.

He hadn’t known when the key had become a talisman, a token, a magical link to a life he had lost — but, it did nonetheless, and it hadn’t exactly asked his permission. It felt no different. No visible string connected to it, but he had kept it close for decades, a dark mourning entering his fingertips as he grappled through the keyring.

“Mr Monroe,” said Hawthorne, and it didn’t sound like the first time. She stood in the hall, looking at him in concern.

He snapped from the reverie. “Sorry, what?”

It wouldn’t have been the first time he had lost himself in thought. Monroe preferred to not lay plans on paper, as they could be stolen or compromised. But Hawthorne knew him well enough to know this was no such moment.

“What happened with that mage upstairs?” she asked in a halting voice.

Ryuko. That was another thing he had not the first idea what to do with. It seemed more danger than he was worth. So many pieces, only so many hours of the night to worry. That samurai movie hung tantalizingly out of reach.

Monroe sighed. “When I offered you a place with Pieterzoon,” he said, “you didn’t argue. You just accepted it.”

“I did,” she said, furrowing her brow. “As you said, it was another option for me.”

“Do you miss the Camarilla?”

Hawthorne grimaced and laid a hand on the bannister. He knew her roots, though she didn’t like to speak of them, lay in the French Courts of Love. The Camarilla state spread through several cities and was ruled from Paris by a Toreador prince and his Ventrue consort and primogen, Monroe’s grandsire, who had been the first of his line to acquire Hawthorne.

“I miss predictability,” she said. “It can’t be said that Camarilla obey all their laws, or even most of them, but I have a place there. I know where I stand, how I stand, how to act, what is expected of me. I’m… not wholly respected, per se, but afforded a degree of understanding.” She snorted. “I wouldn’t be accosted by slack-jawed ruffians, who insisted on showing me  _ libertas _ .”

He stared. “Did that happen?”

Hawthorne met his eye again. “Of course not, sir.”

Monroe rolled his eyes.

“I can handle myself.” She must’ve realised the strength of her tone and softened, stepping forward after a hesitation. “What’s brought this on?”

Monroe searched for words. This was not how their relationship worked. He came to her with an action plan, she asked clarifying questions, and then executed it. Personally, between Blue Moon and music, that was different. This was business and, in business, he needed to be iron, steel, resolute. Blue blooded.

He gathered himself and allowed himself a moment. “In spring 2000, I received a call from Sandra Redding. You remember Red, I’m sure?”

“She’s a hard one to forget,” said Hawthorne dryly. 

Of all his stray fledglings, Red had been Hawthorne’s least favourite. Something about the twangy Nashville accent and her early nights spent pining for her useless boyfriend cum sire, who had abandoned her when the other Ventrue declared Red his lovesick mistake.

“She told me Barty Vaughn had turned over the San Francisco Peninsula to the Camarilla. In a fortnight, archons had been dispatched, and the Ivory Tower recovered the rest of the Bay. Months later, Baltimore came to a head.”

“You’re wondering if Vaughn would’ve offered succor?” she summarized.

There was a good chance he would’ve, but it was a chance Monroe hadn’t dared take, so long as Hawthorne’s life relied on his decisions. MacNeil had been infamous for accepting Camarilla criminals. In spite of common sense, he had allowed them to stay.

Monroe rubbed the key. “I miss home,” he said quietly. The confession sounded like a guillotine sliding down, a hot shame rising through his collar at the weakness as Fowler cursed and snarled in his ear. “That hippie mage showed me my apartment. It’s all covered in dust and, sure, San Francisco has changed a lot since 1944, but… It was mine and, my life… The Camarilla isn’t perfect and I don’t even know if I can say it’s  _ better _ than the Anarchs, but…”

As he lost his resolve and Fowler grew all the louder, Hawthorne laid a hand on his and he drew strength from the warmth.

“Wherever you go, I will follow,” she said. “Always.”

Monroe smiled plaintively. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Not for the first time, he considered conceding the Danse to Garcia and leaving. It was only pride. But Pieterzoon had told him to stay put. At least another few days. Charlie was young enough to not have the same prejudice other Anarch-sired neonates acquired. Zari and Jack were another matter. As Monroe had once told Hawthorne when he had abdicated from Camarilla intrigue and society, wanting things was dangerous and led to misery and complications. More danger than it was worth.

“You don’t have any remnants from your mortal life?” he asked. “I can’t deny that’s half why I miss my home.”

Something very soft and lost entered her eyes. “That tormented girl died on her knees in Paris, half a world away from her birthplace. There’s nothing left of her.”

He curled his fingers around hers. “I’m sorry.”

Hawthorne softened further, as though she hadn’t expected the sentiment. She swallowed. “It was a long time ago.”

“Doesn’t mean the loss hurts any less. All it means is that it’s easier to live with.”

She breathed, but only barely, the air between them slightly disturbed. The quiet understanding took them both. Neither moved, else it could shatter the pregnant moment and what came forward might not be fit for the world. 

Even so, Monroe felt the unfamiliar sentimentality, just out of reach, though closer than it had ever been. He had freely fed on wannabe models, actresses, and scene queens for decades. Hawthorne looked little like them. Her features were hard and unfeeling, her nose hooked and jaw squared, her hairstyle out of date and dress uninspired, her figure neither sensually soft nor waifish but as stony as the rest of her. He couldn’t describe or give a name to the unfamiliar feeling in his chest, but it wasn’t quite right. It left him cold.

Monroe had stepped closer before he realised what he was doing. She leaned into him, inches away. 

The oven beeped in the kitchen. Hawthorne started and turned at the sound.

Monroe dropped her hand and picked up his jacket again, a different shame settling hard and cold.

His blood in her would never give her a free choice. To take her without it would be heartless. To pretend at anything other than regent and ghoul was cruel.

“Let us deal with what’s in front of us, first,” he said crisply, “and then we can reconsider San Francisco. I’m going back to Blue Moon tonight to deal with Dawson and those deaths. The night is yours to do with what you want.”

“Of course, sir,” said Hawthorne softly.

He hadn’t shut the door fast enough to cut off the honorific. On the step, he gathered himself and returned to the car and the night, alone. As always, he had work to do.


	14. The Ivory Tower

Whispers came on the air. Blue Moon, while never kindreds’ favourite spot, had lost its adherents. Too risky, what with the recent deaths. Three now. The Professor’s Math Class didn’t come anymore. Those few loners abandoned it. Copper and the thinbloods came by occasionally, but most nights the basement lay empty and silent. It didn’t affect the bottom line, but it very much affected Monroe’s reputation. It was the Danse. Garcia’s work. Oh, sure, it might never be traced back to him. It was merely the fickle nature of kindred. Garcia might be Anarch, but he was clever and as old as Monroe. The humiliation made him grind his fangs.

It went against everything the clan had ever taught him, but Monroe hoped to sue for peace. Danses quickly got out of hand. So long as they were young, Garcia might forgive whatever slight Monroe had committed. Then again, there was Ace to consider. He had no idea how he would break her bond  _ and _ be able to escape Los Angeles with his life.

Downstairs, Zari finalized the December issue of the  _ Fifth Estate _ with Jack and Charlie. That would truly be the test. If, when Ashley printed it out and sold it, any outwardly rejected it. 

At least the main floor was excitable. Chopshop wasn’t nearly as hopeless as Hawthorne thought. Even she couldn’t resist moving to the music in the booth. Her fourth beer had nothing to do with that. 

Monroe compulsively checked his phone. Pieterzoon hadn’t gotten back to him. It was his nuclear option. He desperately didn’t want to call a Camarilla archon to deal with an Anarch. He  _ did _ have a reputation, however sketchy, to maintain.

“A watched phone never rings,” said Hawthorne knowingly. Her cheeks had grown rosy. “Need something to take the edge off?” She reached out a wrist to offer him her tipsy blood.

Monroe took the hand but didn’t bring it to his lips. “I want you to admit I was right.”

Hawthorne snatched it back. “Never.”

“Come on. I’m sure you can hear it, I encouraged the Velveteens’ drummer to play a set with Chopshop.”

“ _ Encouraged _ ,” repeated Hawthorne with a smirk.

He straightened himself. “Sure, maybe it involved a little Dominate. That’s not the point. Point is, I think we should sign them.”

Hawthorne killed the last of her fourth beer. “Doubtful. They won’t have any sort of national success.”

“Doesn’t mean they won’t have fun. They can tour, make a few albums.”

Hawthorne barely listened to him. She traced small circles on the back of his hand. Even with the drink, her sharp eyes watched him. The way the world seemed to fall away at the touch of her eyes had nothing to do with Disciplines.

“No,” he said gently. He withdrew both his hands off the table. His skin tingled where she had touched it. 

Disappointed, she leaned back. “Why?”

The word shot out of her mouth like a bullet.

She saved him the bother of answering.

“I’ll tell you,” she snapped. “Noblesse oblige.” She drew out the Ventrue commandment to a comical length. “Obligation of the leader to his followers, king to his subjects, master to his slaves. Tough shit.”

Had she cried or whimpered or pled with him by eyes or words, he wouldn’t be able to resist. But Hawthorne did not have a weak bone in her body; they had been tempered to diamond. Ventru’s Beast growled at the insubordination.

“It is not tough shit,” he hissed. “It is my life. You understand, better than the others, why I do not have friends. It blurs the responsibility and brings emotions into things.”

“We aren’t friends either,” said Hawthorne.

Monroe searched for emotion in her words but found none. It disappointed him. It shouldn’t have.

“I would like to be,” he offered. He cursed each word that came from his damn mouth. “Ours is more complicated, because of the bond, but, were it to break...”

“You think you wouldn’t still feel noblesse oblige if I were your childe?” Hawthorne smirked. She knew him too well.

The thought brought him up short. Against his will, as though watching a film, Monroe could see it. The intimate, primal Embrace, teaching the Ventrue oratory, feeling her temperate hand in his. Decades and centuries, beside each other, as equals, his ever stable constant in the changing fabric of his life. One night, he knew, Zari and Jack would be as vague memories as Deborah and Jenkins; Charlie would be remembered with the fondness of Zachary Grimes and Sandra Redding. Hawthorne would remain — as his childe, binding them both in blood, rather than her alone.

It must’ve shown on his face. Hawthorne broke eye contact and flagged down the waitress for another drink.

“Never,” she swore. “These have been the best years of my life. Don’t ruin it.”

“I won’t,” he said with regret.

His phone chimed. He grabbed it, a thrill in his fingers, but it was only Dawson giving his hourly update via text.

“Not Amsterdam?” she asked.

Monroe shook his head.

“More’s the pity.”

“What a scheming little blue blood,” hissed an invisible voice hot in his ear. “Taking a trip to the Old World? Tsk. Tsk.”

Monroe reached a hand behind in the general direction of Rubio’s voice. Clans with Obfuscate made wonderful spies. He hated it. He found a swatch of dark hair and patted his face. “Good to hear you again.”

Rubio had turned visible again and hopped in the booth next to Hawthorne. “Always a pleasure. What’s cooking?”

Monroe took a folded cheque out of his jacket pocket and tossed it to Rubio.

Rubio glanced at it and flicked it back with a snort. “ _ Dude _ . I don’t take hand-outs, or bribes. I’m gonna do this restaurant on my own.”

Monroe flicked it again. “It’s not free. It’s payment.”

Rubio read the cheque over and over again, as if Monroe’s intentions might be writ there as well. “So. Finally old enough to demand a give to my ‘take’. Don’t trust what comes free anymore?”

“Oh, I trust it. That’s payment for you putting yourself in danger on my regard.”

Rubio firmly put the cheque back on Monroe’s side of the table. “What makes you think I’ll do anything dangerous for you for a bit of green?”

“Because I’m one of about three people in this city who respect you.”

Rubio flinched. It was a hard truth. The only reason he had come to Blue on a minute’s notice was because he had nothing better to do.

“What do you want?” he asked at last. “Not saying I’ll give it.”

“Information.” Monroe gestured to the elevator.

Reluctantly, Rubio pocketed the blank cheque and followed him upstairs to his office. The sounds of the music and kine from below faded into a dull roar beneath their feet. Rubio took an arm chair and kicked his dirty sneakers up on a spotless glass coffee table. 

“You get three questions,” he said tightly.

Monroe sat opposite him. Even facing insults to his name and dignity, he had never seen Rubio so stressed. His jaw clenched so hard it threatened to snap on every word. They had done colloquial business many times before. There was no need for it to become so strained.

“Why does Garcia want me dead?”

Rubio ground his fangs. His eyes blinked from the sides and they became green and yellow. They looked at everywhere but Monroe, twitching. He knew. Of course he knew. Anyone with an ear to the ground worth their salt knew. Monroe had counted on it. 

“Garcia thinks you’re a Camarilla infiltrator,” said Rubio at last.

The idea was so preposterous that Monroe had to laugh. For decades, the Camarilla thought he spied for the Anarchs. Oh, the irony. Garcia was also not wholly wrong. If any found out about Amsterdam, he was worse than dead.

Rubio cracked a smile. “Told him it was nuts.”

“How did he come to this conclusion?”

“Lots of little things,” explained Rubio. “Honestly, he’s been looking for  _ something _ for years. Every now and then, he sends someone on his behalf. Mighty Anarch Prince can’t come down to Denny’s to ask me himself. He’s mainly wanting to know why the Anarch Free States are such a chaotic, bloody mess. The gangs can’t co-exist peacefully, they’re becoming more vicious, more violent.”

“Maybe because we’re vampires,” suggested Monroe.

Rubio nodded, splitting into a grin. “Told him that, too. He thinks we can be more, though. You know, that Vs don’t need the Tower’s autocratic, feudal bullshit to organize our society.”

“But there’s literally zero order to this society.” As soon as he said it, he realised he had given too much away. He could see Rubio filing his comment away for future reference. “You still haven’t explained why he came to the conclusion that it’s my fault.”

“Camarilla’s fault,” said Rubio. He crossed an ankle over his leg and observed him carefully. “According to Garcia, there simply  _ must _ be an infiltrator weakening the Free States, readying for a more successful praxis. You’re just an easy scapegoat, really. Ventrue — and you look it. More than a century, almost two. You’ve been steadily building power since MacNeil left.” He sighed. “You’re also very new. You’re not an idiot. I’m sure you know others hold that against you, too.”

“MacNeil vouched for me,” said Monroe in a forced even voice. When he had first come to LA three years ago, MacNeil had still been in charge. He heard Monroe’s story, from Embrace to Baltimore, and read him like a book. They respected each other.

Rubio’s smile thinned to nothingness. “MacNeil’s not here. It’s a new era.”

It all came back to loyalty. Until Monroe fought at Garcia’s side, for a cause, risking his life, Garica would never trust him. Maybe it was simpler than that. With all the chaos, Garcia wanted a rallying icon to burn in effigy. 

Monroe thought of a thousand plans, each more unlikely than the next. Perhaps he could track MacNeil and drag him back. Garcia would bow to him. Anarchs liked him. Maybe he could orchestrate some fight against Garcia, come swooping in to the rescue and earn his trust. 

Pitiful. He should be able to come up with something better. Was he Ventrue or was he not? Monroe shook his head free of the sentiment. That was more Beast — Fowler — than himself.

“Buddy,” said Rubio. He leaned forward with a sad smirk. “I like you, I do. I’ll help you interrogate and kill FBI scum seven days a week. But I’m not going to war for you against Garcia.”

“Let me ask my third question, then,” said Monroe with a grimace. “How much trouble might you be in if Garcia knew you told me this?”

Rubio’s face fell slack. “You wouldn’t. You’re not that cruel, not to your friends.”

“Of course not. I’m asking you to stay neutral,” he said reasonably. “I don’t want you to get caught in the crossfire, Manny.”

The use of his first name threw him off-guard. It was a gambit, the worst kind, in Monroe’s opinion. It was based on genuine sentiment. He would loathe to have Rubio’s death in his ledger, but the Setite wouldn’t respond well to threats. He wouldn’t work for Monroe in this, but Monroe might be able to persuade him to avoid working for Garcia.

Rubio dipped his face into his hands. “He’ll know you gave me money.”

“I can protect you,” he promised.

“From  _ Garcia _ ? You forget, he owns LA. It’s not just the Barony of Angels, remember? East LA is Garcia’s home turf, even with their Sabbat troubles. Most Anarchs follow him like he’s some kinda messiah. There ain’t nowhere in California I can hide if he wants to come after me. What hole do you have that’s deep enough to throw me in?”

Monroe had no such hole. Pieterzoon did, though. And when the archon arrived in California, Monroe intended on making Garcia’s paranoia a prophecy.

“Trust me,” insisted Monroe. “I’ve never done wrong by you. If it comes to your attention that Garcia wants you dead, come to me. I will protect you.”

Rubio opened and shut his mouth several times. “You don’t lie. I want your word.”

“You have it. I swear, if you remain impartial in the Danse Macabre between Garcia and myself, I will protect you from his wrath.”

Rubio seemed to pale. “Alright. I will.” He slunk back, tired. “Damn it all, Monroe, why did it have to be you?”

Rubio stood and offered hand. When Monroe took it, Rubio pulled him into a hug. He had been alright with the fledgling. Humans needed physical comfort and she still felt half hot-blooded. Rubio’s physical friendship felt different. A veneer of fry oil grease clung to him like a perfume as pencil-thin fingers pulled at his back.

“This might be the last you see me for a while, dear friend,” said Rubio.

Monroe returned the hug fiercely and silenced the complaints of his conscience.

  
  


Blue Moon had begun to feel like a clubhouse. The bartender, Alice Zhao, had left for unknowable reasons and the only people ever in the basement were Jack, Zari, and Charlie. For good reason. While Charlie still went home every dawn, Jack and Zari had taken to spending the day at the venue for safety. Monroe had it secured like Fort Knox with the threat of the hunters hanging over them.

Even so, there was a strange, wild freedom in being the only people in the basement. It was like having a chic rec room. They moved the TV into their corner and moved on from vampire movies. This time,  _ Labyrinth _ . Zari had missed most of the classic 80s films, which offended Jack deeply, not that she was interested in watching it. She spent the entire film on her laptop.

Charlie made a stern and serious effort to throw herself into their friendships. She wasn’t human. She didn’t exist. Here, though, she did. Jack taught her to brawl, more patient than Damsel had been, and Hawthorne taught her to fight with a sword. Charlie had first worried about hurting the ghoul, but it became clear that was an almost impossible task. She even won a few smiles to go along with a bruised ego.

Something had passed between Charlie and Zari over Thanksgiving. Charlie didn’t feel the need to fill their shared silence and it seemed Zari appreciated the break. Charlie wanted to talk about Thanksgiving, but she understood that Zari had opened the door to show her and then locked it tight again. There was nothing to say anyway. Only a quiet understanding.

Dustin had given her no indication he knew she had been there on Thanksgiving. On the contrary, he had ignored her completely. She wasn’t human. She didn’t exist. The page from Mrs Rhymer had vanished from her bedroom. She knew it was him, taking care of Bella. It didn’t hurt. Not really. That lack of expected response — sorrow from her body, the heavy hollow grief from her heart — frightened her deeply. The lack of emotional response made her feel like it was okay to not care. It slipped just out of reach.

Zari felt the change in Charlie’s mood and, without taking her eyes from the laptop, laid a hand of support on her leg. Charlie returned the gesture as she felt her pain bleed over.

“Sorry,” she muttered.

“I’m gonna stake you on the roof if you keep that up.”

Charlie felt a smile come on. “Sorry.”

Zari withdrew the hand. “Ugh. You’re getting than Jack.”

That was a compliment, as far as she was concerned.

Jack had begun to coax stray animals into the basement, which annoyed Monroe to no end. Jack had sent Hawthorne to PetSmart at least three times to get food for his growing brood. Four mangy cats, a limping dog, and six small black birds that he thought might be magpies. He fed them blood and started training them. There was something about seeing the hulking dude in a leather jacket cuddling a scrawny street cat.

Zari followed Charlie’s eye. “Want one?” she asked. “When he first joined us, he gave me a black cat. Animals need a little Gangrel love and care before they take to us.”

The tiny cats screeched the smallest of  _ meows _ .

“Oh yes,” cooed Jack. “Absolutely. I’ll get you better food, sweetheart.”

“You still have the cat?” she asked.

Zari didn’t answer for a while and when she did, it was a whisper. “Gave it to Aisha. She found it when she moved into her first place.”

The elevator dinged and opened. Monroe. He rarely came downstairs and, when he did, it was never for long.

He sighed when he saw Jack. “Glad you’re having fun.” He didn’t leave the elevator. “Come with me.” He might’ve appeared bored if his eyes weren’t quite so intense.

Jack set down his cat and stood, carefully stepping over them. “What’s up?”

“A Camarilla envoy is here, to speak with my coterie.”

His words destroyed the mood. Charlie looked to Zari and Jack, who both grew as dark and stormy as Monroe. They did as he said, hopping into the elevator.

Zari took Monroe’s arm. “Why are they here?”

“She’s from San Francisco,” said Monroe, hitting the button for the top floor. “It could be a trap, by Garcia, but it could also be the Camarilla, probing for another praxis. We can’t afford to let LA appear weak.”

“Why would Garcia lay a trap for you?” asked Zari.

Monroe froze, as though he had said too much. “I’ll tell you later.”

Zari accepted it unwillingly, before turning to Charlie. She gripped her arm and fixed her with a hard look. Only the jean jacket and hoodie kept her fingers from biting into her. “This person is not our friend,” she said. “Any bad feelings you had about the baron or  _ us _ , the Cam is a thousand times worse. Remember what I said about elders? They actually think this is the middle ages. They’re kings. We’re peasants that managed to revolt.”

Charlie tore her arm free and swallowed. This was insane. “Got it.”

“The older we are, the more powerful we are,” said Monroe. “Anyone Barty sent on their own into Anarch domain would be very dangerous.”

“Barty?” asked Charlie.

A flicker of emotion crossed his face, gone before she could name it. “ _ Prince _ Bartholomew, I suppose I should say. Prince of San Francisco.”

The elevator moved too fast.

“Why are they here?” asked Jack.

Monroe shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you, but it won’t be pleasant.”

The feeling made Charlie’s stomach slip to the ground floor and she longed to be in the basement again. Even Ashley, for all his cruelty to others, had only annoyed them. Though they kept their faces in check, it wasn’t hard to see their anxiety. It soaked into Charlie, even though she didn’t feel like she understood the situation, and her Beast knew the fear.

She wanted to pull up the hatch at the top of the elevator and crawl out, rip open the doors, fly down the stairs and out into the night. Anywhere but here.

The doors opened.

Three kindred waited for them. They turned as one. Unsmiling and unkind. One, a young woman with ashy blonde hair and a pinched face, the other two were men. All three wore starched pinstriped suits.

Monroe stepped forward. “Honoured guests,” he said smoothly, extending a hand, “I apologize for the delay. You should’ve sent word ahead, I would’ve been delighted to host you.”

Zari followed close behind, but Jack made a point of standing in front of Charlie.

“Petra van Allen of Clan Tremere, Herald of Prince Bartholomew Vaughn,” said the woman. She ignored Monroe’s hand. “This is my childe, Remus Regards, and Carlyle Loraine, Whip of Clan Ventrue.”

Monroe directed the hand to the man Petra had called the whip. It looked like Monroe stared into a better reflection. Monroe only wore a jacket with jeans, but Carlyle wore a pinstriped suit and wide bronze tie. Both appeared neat, but Carlyle’s hair could’ve been plastic for its shiny perfection. The stiff and fake smiles held nothing behind the eyes but suspicion.

Carlyle accepted the hand and shook it firmly. “Carlyle Loraine of the Clan of Kings, Tenth of the Line of Mithras the Sun, Childe of Prince Bartholomew Vaughn, Clan Ventrue Whip.”

“Matthew Monroe of the Clan of Kings, Ninth of the Line of Artemis Orthia, Childe of the late Alastair Fowler,” he said in reply. “I can’t even tell you the last time I’ve met our blood, cousin.” He stepped back and inclined his head to Petra. “Let me introduce my coterie,” he said. “Zari of Clan Toreador, Jack Shen of Clan Gangrel, and Charlie Bradley of Clan Malkavian.”

Petra’s grey eyes took them in. They felt like bullets. “Charmed,” she said.

“By all means, please, have a seat,” said Monroe. The words were friendly but his tone made it clear it wasn’t a request.

The room was designed as an office space for human affairs. Gold and platinum records hung across the upper third of the walls. A heavy-set wood desk and a seating area of armchairs and a couch. Monroe led them through another door into a bare meeting room. The thick glass table was set with a dozen chairs.

Monroe sat himself at the head. Charlie tried to not make her haste obvious, but she scrambled to sit on his side, rather than at the foot, where Petra, her childe, and the Ventrue sat.

“What brings you to SoCal?” asked Zari.

“All kindred are one with the Ivory Tower,” began Petra in glacial tones, “whether they know it or not. The Traditions and structure she provides keep us from falling to the Beast or to the dangers of humanity. Even those who try to build anew only imitate the perfection of what has been crafted and honed over centuries. Whether you call yourselves Camarilla, Anarch, or autarkis, the results are the same. You are bound by her laws and welcome in her arms.”

“What brings you to LA?” asked Monroe, irritated to repeat Zari.

“Madame Herald, if I may speak,” asked Carlyle. Petra nodded and he addressed his clanmate, “Mr Monroe, I bring tidings from the prince, my sire, and a question. He wishes to know how satisfied you are, living in a lawless domain of anarchy, war, and strife.”

“I’m still alive,” said Monroe. His eyes narrowed. “If the prince has the power to pardon me from the murder of the Prince of Baltimore so unjustly laid at my feet, he has my thanks.”

Charlie realised she wasn’t the only one who stared at him. Both Zari and Jack gave him startled looks.

“You are here out of necessity, not desire,” summarized Carlyle.

“I am here because I am allowed to be independent,” said Monroe. “I am allowed to carve my own destiny.”

“What of your coterie?” asked Petra. “Assuredly, these neonates were sired into the Anarch chaos. They know little better. Is it not your duty unto them to introduce them to traditional, unified ways?”

“My duty is to give them the information necessary for them to make informed decisions about their own unlives,” said Monroe.

Jack laid a hand on the table. “If I could interrupt the high clans, I understand I’m just dirt on your shoes, but I have no interest in being pushed around like a pawn for the rest of my unlife. The Anarchs suit me just fine.”

“Politics are not codified into the Camarilla,” said Petra smoothly. “There is no requirement to take civic roles in the governing of our kind.”

“If you don’t take a role, you will be given one,” said Monroe in a hard voice.

“Then, what of the Black rose?” asked Carlyle. “Toreadors were not sired to run wild among the ruins of the Anarch Revolts.”

Zari smiled coldly. “I don’t care what my clan was sired to do. I make my own life and, from what I know, I only have the freedom to do that here.”

“Would you really desperately cling to such freedom at the loss of safety and security?” he asked. Carlyle’s handsome features fixed themselves in an unconvincing expression of concern.

“Yes,” Zari and Charlie answered at the same time.

Eyes turned to her. She couldn’t believe she had opened her mouth.

“By all means, let the mad childe speak,” said Petra disdainfully. “Tell me, how old are you?”

“Twenty,” said Charlie defensively.

Petra raised an ashen eyebrow. Charlie struggled to not flinch at the unblinking glare. The words could’ve been friendly, if spoken by anyone else, but dug into her ears like icicles. “Do you not feel like you deserve to find a place of safety in your new life?”

“I don’t know much,” she admitted, “but I don’t think that safety really exists in this life, no matter how much freedom you give up for it.”

“It is worthy of note that the low clans, such as Brujah, Gangrel, Malkavian, Nosferatu, they cannot be depended to look after their own,” said Petra. The scorn had slipped from her voice and she smiled, but her words bit patronizingly. “You, of course, have been Embraced on a whim and left to rot. These clans what run the so-called Free States can hardly be expected to look after wider interests. I suspect, though, that being fostered by a Ventrue will have lingering affects on you. You don’t seem like you would like to go howling at the moon or shooting others in the streets, would you? Wouldn’t you prefer a more settled life?”

Charlie floundered for words. Her hands twisted in her lap. The Beast clawed at her throat, stealing her voice. “I mean, yeah, I don’t want to howl anywhere and I’ve never shot a gun really. I just…”

A heavy hand landed on her leg and Monroe squeezed it until she stopped talking. “In time,” he said coldly, “when she’s learned our ways and history, she will have her choice. If she wishes, I will send her to you with glowing recommendations. Until then, do not speak to my fledgling. I will ask you once more, Madam Herald, why are you here tonight on behalf of San Francisco?”

Charlie slid her hand over his and he kept it there.

“I am not here on behalf of San Francisco,” said Petra. “I am here on behalf of the new Prince of Los Angeles.”

Monroe lost his false smile. “Barty’s claiming praxis.”

“ _Prince_ _Bartholomew_ , my sire, claims domain over the city of Los Angeles, from the San Fernando Valley to Long Beach,” said Carlylye. “The prince, my sire, looks forward to a long-lasting relationship and cooperation with the kindred of LA. All Anarchs are absolved of any crimes previously committed in the city and Tower lands and are offered full membership into the Camarilla. Resistance will be punished resolutely, while submission will be rewarded.”

Monroe gave a stilted laugh. “Cousin, for the blood we share, I feel it only prudent to warn you that Los Angeles will not fall easily. These Anarchs have sent two Sabbat sieges in retreat and slew the last two princes to claim praxis. What makes you think Prince Bartholomew will be any different?”

“Perhaps you should bring that up at the next Gerousia,” offered Carlyle casually.

The effect on Monroe was immediate and striking. His face did that crashing waterfall trick, so different from his usual blank expression that it frightened Charlie’s Beast. It curled in her chest. Even torn to shreds by an invisible ghost, he had held his resolve. Monroe was arrogant, inhuman in his coldness, and absolutely in control. For him to be unnerved, she should be afraid. Very afraid.

“Pardon me?” he asked. His voice had lost all confidence.

“Second Tuesday of the month, as ever,” said Carlyle crisply. He seemed to sit up straighter as Monroe withered. “Regardless of political affiliation, you are the blood of Ventru the King and are owed a seat and voice at the meeting of your kin. All Ventrue of the city are being offered as such. I bring a message from the prince, my sire, as well. The message is as follows: I did as you asked.”

“ ‘I did as you asked’?” said Zari. “Is that it?”

Monroe had grown even stiller, if that was possible. “Thank you, cousin, for delivering it.” He sounded a million miles away. “In return, I would like to give Prince Bartholomew a response. Tell him, ‘Thank you.’ ” Monroe opened his mouth and shut it again.

“I get you guys are having a hot Ventrue moment,” said Jack. He tapped the glass table and drew hateful glares from the Camarilla. “I gotta ask, though. If  _ Barty _ was Prince of San Francisco, why is he abandoning his city and coming here? Did the Berkeley Anarchs finally take the Bay back?”

“He is not abandoning anything,” said Carlylye hotly. Menace gleamed in his eyes. “San Francisco is solidly a Camarilla domain, held by Prince Bartholomew’s steward.”

Petra raised a hand to shut up the younger Ventrue. “We have been given special leave and charged with reclaiming Los Angeles and San Diego.”

“So, you come as a conquering army, then?” asked Jack. “Starting a California empire?”

Monroe’s hand still lingered on Charlie’s leg. It wasn’t sexual, but he seemed to draw strength from the contact, as she had from him. He still looked half a mess. After all the talk about how dangerous the Camarilla could be, Charlie struggled to control herself. He glanced at her. Rather than the blank and emotionless blue they had been before, they were full of sorrow.

The static in her mind intensified. She tried to blink it free but it became a physical thing, flowing through her bones as if they were pipes.

_ Run. Run. Danger. If the leader is compromised, the whole is, too. Run. You’ve shown weakness. You need to get out of here _ .

Her head felt like it was going to explode. Charlie dug her nails into Monroe’s hand. They drew bloodless scratches as she silently pled for help. Rather than red, his blood appeared blue and gold, twisting in rivers. She blinked again. Red. Red. There was no such thing as blue blood. His eyes widened and he reclaimed his composure almost instantly.

“Mr Shen, please take Miss Bradley outside.”

Jack, who had continued to debate the Camarilla officials, turned to Charlie and quickly did as he was told. He dragged her by the arm out of the room and pressed the button for the elevator.

“What’s going on?” he asked quietly.

Charlie wrenched her arm free. Her hands opened and closed relentlessly.

_ Get out. Out. Out. You are not safe here. They know you. They can find you. _

Her body felt flush with life, like it hadn’t in weeks. Her head swelled with the heat, the strain and tension. She scratched through her hair. The walls turned to water.

_ Run. They’ll kill you. They’ll tear you apart. Smell weakness like blood in the water. Run. You can’t fight. Flee. Now.  _

The Beast lost the ability to form words and all that was left was a mounting feeling of terror. It filled every cell in her body, filled with the will of the Beast. 

Jack was saying something. His mouth opened and closed. Sound came out. It was so far away, though.

Doors suddenly opened, into a small, cramped room. A box, locked tight. Vulnerable.

Charlie ran. She opened a new door and a wave of sound and light assaulted her. Darkness. The light was only faint — blue and white — scattered. Darkness. She jumped down the stairs, taking them four at a time. The air was hot with the press of bodies and warm blood. She ran. Faster. The stairs ended.

More bodies. Hundreds, all crammed tight, under the terrible echoing beat of the music. She couldn’t distinguish any heart beats, but the smell was overwhelming. She bolted through another hallway, away from the scent and sound. Faster. Somewhere small, dark, safe. Silent.

She shouldered through a heavy door and ended up outside. The season was late, the air chill. Darkness. But she was in a valley. Tall buildings overlooked the cramped space. Vulnerable, perfect for an ambush.

Footsteps behind her. She ran. Not safe. Not safe. She hissed, whimpering.

A distant human part of her recognised a strange metal disc in the alley. 

_ Sewers _ . Dark. Safe. Silent. A maze that could hide and protect her.

A burrow, a cave. 

She clawed her fingers under the rim and flipped it. The smell was the very antithesis of the club. She jumped down and landed badly. Her ankle cracked, but she moved forward. The soreness healed with the next steps. In the deep shadows, pipes were tendrils, hanging vines, roving stalactites. 

She jumped into the thick brackish water and swam. Her body knew the motions and now, it never tired. Her muscles didn’t ache, her lungs didn’t need to breathe. The scent wasn’t so bad, so long as she didn’t breath. Her eyes adjusted to the blackness and she sighed.

This was home territory. Familiar. Not to her, maybe, but her bones and blood recognised it. An underground cave system, a series of wide tunnels, full of water and small animals, where humans feared to go. 

Sounds reverberated off the stone walls. Voice, but she didn’t hear the words or who it was. Faster. Deeper.

Maybe she could make it out into the ocean.

The voice quieted and faded into the distance as she swam through the caves. Eventually, though, she climbed back onto the rocky shore. Her shoes struggled on the slick rocks. She tore them off and left them behind, crawling across the tiles on all fours.

Dark. Safe. Silent.

  
  


Monroe listened with only half an ear as Petra went on about the glory of the Camarilla. There was not a single version of this damned speech that he didn’t already know. Half his mind lingered on the offer to join in with the Camarilla Ventrue, to be part of them again. They knew exactly how much it meant to him. Wanting things was dangerous.

Which meant he had to reject it.

Carlyle Loraine was the very picture of a young Ventrue. A tailored but dated suit, matching tie and pocket square, a sure superiority etched in every line, and the absolute adoration with which he spoke of  _ the prince my sire _ . It was like looking into a dusty and forgotten mirror, one he had smashed a century ago. Monroe wanted to shake him, to show him that, for all of Clan Ventrue’s talk of counsel and ruling justly, it was a hollow full of despotic elders. Lorraine would never get his chance. He would always be a slave.

But, there, in his words, was the glimmer of hope. Hope was dangerous. Barty might be different. Had been different. What if he broke the tradition of Ventrue sires? What if he was kind, rather than domineering? What if he taught his childe with patience, rather than fear? As a neonate, Barty had betrayed his clan and sect, joining the Anarchs to overthrow the Camarilla of the Bay. Barty had spent most of his nights pursuing Tremere, with sexual desire and bloodlust. The clan rarely produced heralds — was Petra van Allen’s clan a silent message to Monroe? Nothing had changed?

No. Everything had changed. Barty had hated his full name. Bartholomew was no different. When the Anarchs no longer suited him, he ousted them and rejoined the Tower. He chased power with an insatiable greed. Like every other Ventrue. Lorraine was no different. 

“The prince, my sire,” said Lorraine, “will be delighted at the opportunity for a meeting. How long has it been?”

Monroe felt Zari’s eyes burn into him. “Many years,” he said. “But, and I do want it noted, I take no part in a war of praxis. I do not speak for any baron of Los Angeles, nor will I dictate my coterie’s wills. Autarkis I have been and autarkis I will be.”

“Understood,” said Petra. The Tremere herald raised her chin higher and he felt the mental pressure again. It wasn’t Dominate, though Tremere, too, had that power. It came from nowhere specifically, but pressed on the sides of his mind. Perhaps a strong power of Auspex, that Discipline of extrasensory powers. “Prince Bartholomew is interested in speaking with you and you only. Your willingness and cooperation has been noted.”

“I’ve lived too long to shut doors behind me,” said Monroe. He disguised a flinch from a particularly strong attack. “I consider my establishment one of sanctuary. It is a safe place for kindred of all sects and factions. I broker no violence within, nor aggressive use of the powers of our blood.”

The mental pressure eased at once. 

Petra stood, her face calm and unreadable.

Monroe addressed his naive clanmate, “Please, tell the prince he knows where to find me.”

Lorraine inclined his head. “Of course, cousin. I wish you a good night.”

“And you. Pay my respects to the court.”

Monroe eagerly showed them to the elevator, and texted Dawson. His head of security would be somewhere on the floor, ready to receive and show the Camarilla the door.

“What was that?” demanded Zari as the elevator slipped away. “I know you have some history with the Cam, but a  _ prince _ ?”

“Not now,” said Monroe.

Zari laughed bitterly. “No, you listen to me. Your rules, remember, they go two ways. ‘Trust me and don’t make me regret trusting you.’ ”

“None of us had proud beginnings,” said Monore indifferently.

“Who is Bartholomew?” she asked. “Or  _ Barty?  _ What did he do for you? Why does he want to give you advance warning that he’s about to torch LA?”

Monroe grimaced and considered pawning her off with some half-truths. Despite her comparative youth, Zari was older than her years. Surviving in Anarch domain did that to someone. She deserved the truth, as much as he wanted to give.

“We were both neonates in California in the early 1900s,” said Monroe. “He became wrapped up in the Anarchs and, because we were allies, gave me advance warning that they were going to launch a coup and I needed to leave. It succeeded and, as similar revolutions spread across the state, became known as the Second Anarch Revolts. I haven’t spoken to Barty since 1944.”

“What did he do for you?” she asked, still confused.

“Before we left, I asked him to kill my sire personally,” said Monroe, unflinching. Among Ventrue, it would’ve been akin to a death sentence, a gnawing shame. “He was the Ventrue Primogen and, being his childe, I was ensured a place on the line to the guillotine next to him. You know the rest of the story. I fled across Camarilla domains as an outsider, fought in the Siege of New York, and came here. The end.”

“And Garcia?” asked Zari pointedly. The elevator opened and they stepped in. “Something we should know about?”

“Yes, probably quite a bit,” he admitted. “Garcia has initiated a… rivalry, let’s call it.”

“Let’s call it the truth.”

“The Tower uses the phrase ‘Danse Macabre’,” he explained. “The inevitability of an eternal feud between kindred, wherein one party attempts to annihilate the other through use of proxies and social maneuvering.”

Zari readjusted the fall of her overlarge sweater as she considered it. “You think Garcia wants to… dance with you?”

“Rubio told me.” Monroe checked his phone again. Nothing. “But I can’t imagine what Garcia will do if he hears Barty’s court checked in on me  _ before _ claiming praxis.”

“He’ll kill you,” said Zari simply. “Publically, at Greystone, where people can celebrate.”

She was right.

Perhaps the correct thing to do would be to warn them all, let them go, make arrangements for Zari or Jack to take formal charge of Charlie in event of his death. Monroe knew himself well, though. It was not pride. It was honesty. He could take Garcia, destroy him if need be. He could protect his coterie and Hawthorne.

He wasn’t sure how, yet, but he would.

He had to.

There was no other choice.

Zari threw herself into the couch and crossed her long legs. “I’ll stand by you,” she said. “Even if Garcia calls for your head, I’ll stay. We’ll figure this out.”

Monroe stared. “Thank you.”

Zari raised her voice. “On the condition, that you tell me about Baltimore.” 

She patted the place beside her and Monroe sat, knowing he was about to lie. His loyalty and duty to his coterie warred with his own honour.

“Alright,” he said. “What do you want to know?”

“You murdered the Prince of Baltimore?” asked Zari. Her eyes burned as she clicked together the pieces. “I need that story. The truth of it. You wouldn’t have kept it secret. The Anarchs would have respected and welcomed you if you butchered a Ventrue prince.”

Monroe chose his words with exceptional care. It was not a lie. It simply was not all of it.

“I crossed paths, poorly, with Prince Garlotte on several occasions,” he said. “One night, when I was in his hotel, I found him and his childer dead. Someone planned on using me as a fallman. I ran.”

She searched him for countless minutes. “I know you aren’t telling me everything,” she said at last. “I’m choosing to trust you. Don’t make me regret it.”

Monroe couldn’t meet her eye. Had it been any other night, he would have let it be forgotten. The Ventrue’s visit had ripped open a wound that had scarred over. The words bled out of him.

“Prince Garlotte blood bound me,” he said. “I was looking after a stray fledgling — like Charlie, and he committed a crime. The bond was my punishment. I had to drink three times.”

“Fucking hell,” Zari muttered, turning away.

“I  _ wish _ I had killed him,” said Monroe. “Not for anything he made me do. I assisted his sheriff. I killed. I hunted ‘criminals’. Truthfully, as the prince’s slave, I had more of a place in the Camarilla than I had since San Francisco. But…” He shrugged impotently.

He didn’t need to explain it. Every Anarch neonate knew horror stories of the Camarilla princes, the dreaded chains of blood. How free will was nothing more than clay, to pass from hand to hand. Every kindred who had ever kept a ghoul knew it.

Zari was not the type to offer him comfort. He didn’t want or need it. If she had offered, he would’ve shrugged it off, burdened with guilt by the debt he could not share.

Prince Garlotte had not ordered a blood bond for punishment. Monroe and his charge had been slated for execution. To save their lives, Monroe had willingly offered a life boon, a far worse fate than the blood bond. A life for a life.

Boons were currency among those whom currency had no meaning. It was the word of honour, a trade in favours. Trivial boons, traded so informally none kept track. Minor, for common actions that might cause inconvenience. Major, for the spilling of blood, of risk and danger to life or reputation. And life, for the saving of a life.

A life boon entitled the holder to the debtor’s soul. There was nothing that could not be commanded of them. Treason, murder, suicide, espionage, horrific crimes, political maneuvors. And it was forever. It would be paid only when saving the life of the holder.

Unpaid boons passed to the holder’s childer. With Garlotte and his childer murdered, Monroe’s boon might’ve died and his reputation would be in tatters. Murdering the way out of a boon — let alone a life boon — would have made him a pariah for all eternity. Worse still, Monroe’s own honour. As per Ventrue custom, he had voluntarily contacted a clan elder to pass his boon to. Three years and Pieterzoon had done nothing with it. Yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am in the process (ironically) of making a couple of major edits to this story. One of them is replacing the Prince of San Francisco, from Vannevar Thomas to Bartholomew "Barty" Vaughn. Any previous refs to them are referring to the same person.


	15. Of Kings and Blood Gods

Charlie came to her senses, deep in the bowels of the sewers. Panic gripped her and she shouted. Jack had followed her. Someone. They would find her, they had to. She wouldn’t die down here. The curved walls of the sewers felt like they closed in on her, where minutes before they had been sanctuary. The smell was everywhere — a malodorous reek that crawled up into the nostrils and died there. 

It went on for too long. Hours, maybe days.

Then, the murky water below her rippled. She yelled again. “Hey! I’m here!”

Jack waded in the filth and they met with a hug, glowing red eyes finding each other. “Please, don’t go in the sewers next time,” he begged with a laugh. “I fucking hate the sewers.”

Charlie whipped the nasty water from her arm and whipped the moisture from her mouth. The foul taste soaked into her tongue. “Thanks for coming to get me.”

“Of course. What’re friends for?”

She followed Jack out anxiously, the journey taking twice as long as it had felt in frenzy. By the time they crawled out of the manhole behind Blue, her biggest issue was the pervasive feeling of disgust.

Jack laughed as she inspected herself. “There are showers upstairs,” he promised. “I’ll show you the rooms.”

He was right. Beyond the front office and the meeting room, a series of sparse windowless hotel rooms offered showers. Charlie quickly stripped and took to the hot water, watching it run down the drain brown. Even all the steam and soap in the world couldn’t get her clean again. 

Somewhere after scrubbing her mouth out, she tried to piece together the last hours. After a frenzy, her mind felt like an upturned box of puzzle pieces. Jack and his pets. Those Camarilla. Monroe’s expression, his brief loss of composure. Over what? Had they threatened them?

Charlie didn’t think so. Not so direct, anyway. This all felt way too  _ Godfather _ for her to follow, though.

She took her sewer clothes and, upon finding a roll of garbage bags under the sink, stuffed them in there. The closets had a few nondescript clothes in varying sizes. Charlie found a pair of jeans and a shirt that sort of fit.

Jack waited for her by the elevator, hair still dripping and dressed similarly. “Feeling good? Normal?”

She snorted. “What’s ‘normal’?”

“Fair point.”

They returned to the basement. Zari and Hawthorne watched some sort of movie — not  _ Labyrinth _ , Charlie noted — but Monroe sat at the bar by himself, a glass of blood in front of him. 

“What’s this shit?” asked Jack, sitting down. “I thought Toreadors were supposed to have culture.”

“We do,” snapped Zari with a smile. “It’s just so refined you can’t understand it.”

“I understand cinema just fine. It’s…”

Monroe raised an eye when Charlie approached. “Sorry about that,” he muttered. “Are you alright?”

Charlie shrugged. “Are you?”

“No, but that’s not your concern.”

“Don’t tell me what my concern is,” she said. She pulled up a stool next to him. He frowned at it, as though willing her to go away by power of the ugly look. “I dragged you out of a ghost’s chains. You’ve got us locked up like Fort Knox to stave off hunters. You not-being-alright  _ is _ my concern.”

Monroe turned his attention back to his drink. He knocked it back. “Should I take you back home?”

Charlie was about to argue, but nodded when she saw that strained look in his eye. He wanted to talk alone. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m ready.”

Monroe stood and bade the others goodbye, warning them to lock the elevator when they left. Hawthorne sunk back into the couch as some wordless communication passed between them. Charlie rode shotgun next to him, but Monroe didn’t seem to be in a talking mood. She had no idea where he was taking her. Streets, lights, and palm trees passed without note. He slid on and off the freeway, all in silence. Driving in circles like his thoughts, so clear on his face.

“I had nothing to lose, when I was Embraced,” he said at last. “I was a captain in the military, but sustained a fatal wound and had been sent home to die. I had said my goodbyes. I had no family at home, no friends.”

“Lucky you,” said Charlie bitterly.

“Not particularly. All new Ventrue cling to the clan, but I more than most. I had nothing else.” He cleared his throat. “Clan Ventrue is full of traditions. One, the agoge, is a training period after the Embrace. A fledgling learns the clan history, customs, academics, and is given the tools of Machiavelli, to thrive in the Camarilla’s courts. Excellence is expected, not rewarded. Mistakes are not tolerated. Punishment is swift and brutal. Every Ventrue learns to loathe their sire, but he is their only link to the clan they learn to love.”

“What’s there to love about it?” asked Charlie. The way Monroe spoke of punishment made it clear that was not a topic to be broached.

“Throughout Clan Ventrue’s history, we have always shouldered the yoke of leadership. Every time the kindred have faltered, we have been there to pick them back up. The fall of Rome, the Triumvirate of Constantinople, the Inquisition, the Convention of Thorns, founding the Camarilla, the war with the Sabbat. Always. Always.  _ Always _ we have been the defenders of our kind. In ancient times, we were blood gods, then kings, merchants, military commanders, captains of industry, businessman. Every custom of the clan has been to better help us serve them. The agoge prepares us. The Gerousia, our monthly meetings, allows us to work together unlike any other clan. The mighty honour and  _ dignitas _ provide framework to face the Beast. The other clans have always hated us because they think us stuffy, or uptight, or humourless.”

“I wonder why,” said Charlie with a forced smile, but he didn’t find it funny.

Monroe’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. “One night, a new Ventrue realises that their beloved clan is not the paragon monolith he thinks it is. Our history is more tool than truth. They realise the only way to retain relevance in the clan and Camarilla is to cast aside their morals, whilst maintaining their appearance and cultivating power.”

“So, it’s all a lie? Gonna be honest, you’re still the only Ventrue I’ve met.”

“Yes, it’s a lie.” His voice broke and he took a moment to gather himself. “Ventrue rule the Camarilla the way their sires rule their childer, the way childer rule their ghouls. With terror and blood.”

This was why Anarchs didn’t tolerate Ventrue hanging around, why the Professor thought Monroe was teaching her to mistrust. The Ventrue  _ were _ the Camarilla.

Monroe slowed to a stop at the curb of some road Charlie didn’t recognise. He killed the engine. His strained face stared out the windshield.

“I’m sorry,” she said. There didn’t seem to be anything else to say.

“When the Anarchs rebelled,” he said slowly, “Barty joined them. He and I were contemporaries, sired months apart. We were friends, once. He abandoned the clan and Camarilla, who would never offer him power or respect, and found it in the rebellion. For our friendship, he gave me warning the night of the revolt in San Francisco. He killed my sire. I took Hawthorne and fled.”

Monroe bowed his head. He didn’t look like he would cry, but his brow drew together and his proud shoulders caved in. Charlie averted her eyes at first. She didn’t like this side of Monroe. She felt like she was seeing something she wasn’t meant to. Keys jingled and he stroked one in particular. Small, brass, unmarked. His typically unreadable blank eyes touched it softly.

“From 1944 to the new millennium, I became an unwanted pest in Camarilla domains,” he said, his voice bitter. “For a time, I had hoped my clan weren’t as terrible as those of San Francisco. I was wrong. As an outsider without allies or reputation, I was easily played. Wanting things is dangerous. It gives others leverage to force you to do terrible things. When I refused their game, I was shunned and degraded. I took their insult as a badge of honour. Autarkis. Independent. I paid respect to the prince, lived in their laws, but not a citizen of their land. Rather, a hermit. Hope of returning to the clan kept me alive, as much as it strangled me.”

“Barty knows that, doesn’t he?” asked Charlie. “He knows what you want?”

“Most likely,” said Monroe. “What he doesn’t understand and, in truth, most of the clan doesn’t understand is the very honour they give lip service to. I made you a pair of promises, the night I met you. Do you remember it?”

Charlie blinked, surprised. “No.”

He turned to face her. She started at the weary pain in his tired face and wanted to look away but the intensity of his gaze held her prisoner. “I do. I remember every word I have ever given. I promised I would do everything I could to keep you safe and that I would do everything in my power to ensure you thrive in your new life. I’ve made similar oaths to Jack and Zari. My duty comes before my own desires. Regardless what comes next, know that.”

At the thought of his honour, he composed himself somewhat, but his face was still filled with grief. No, not grief, that had a resolution. Longing, for something he knew didn’t exist. 

Charlie had no more words to give. She knew what that felt like. She put an awkward hand on his leg. “I know,” she said blithely.

He smiled tiredly and placed his hand over hers. It didn’t burn like Dustin’s or Bella’s. It felt normal. 

“How did you come to the Anarchs, then?” she asked.

Instantly, she knew it was the wrong question. Monroe stiffened and withdrew again, behind the blank unreadable expression. Then, he thought better of it and relaxed.

“I had had enough,” he said. “New York and the east coast has always been Sabbat territory. We had a prince in Manhattan, besieged by all sides. She begged her clan for help and, in the name of the clan, I helped her. I set up the first meetings, the archons, Queen Anne, justicars.” He shook his head. “Almost ten years planning the assault, two months of straight war, and much of my wealth. I gained the respect of some of the archons, felt like I had found a place in the Camarilla. When the Ventrue Justicar arrived to finalize our victory, she said something I cannot forgive.”

“What was that?”

“ ‘On behalf of the Inner Circle and Clan Ventrue, your work here is done and you may leave.’ ” His smile twisted. “Excellence is expected, not rewarded.”

“That’s fucking cold,” said Charlie, unsure what else to say.

Monroe nodded.

“Zari mentioned—” Charlie sucked her lips in to shut herself up, but it was too late.

“What did Zari say?”

There was something earnest in his eye. Charlie doubted she would ever get a second chance.

“She mentioned something about Baltimore. And that — herald, or whatever, you said you killed the prince. I don’t know if you want to talk about it.” The words rushed out of her.

Monroe took her hand off his leg and into both of his hands. The gesture felt strange, old-fashioned. “I did not kill Prince Garlotte, though I was blamed for it. That story is more a matter of personal humiliation,” he said. “If you insist, I will tell it, but I prefer not to.”

Charlie forced a smile and imitated his stilted voice. “I will respect your choice.”

He chuckled. It was a nice sound. Maybe even genuine. “I appreciate it. And, thank you, for listening. I understand trust is not easy to come by—”

“I trust you,” said Charlie, and she was surprised to find that she meant it. 

Monroe smiled to himself and started the car again. As she recognised the way and realised he took her home, dread mounted in her. If there was ever a time to tell them about Bella, to try to get help protecting her, this was it. While he was vulnerable. Between the hunters and the Camarilla, it seemed like danger wouldn’t just end one night.

They stopped in her driveway. Dustin’s car wasn’t on the street, but the babysitter’s was. Bella must be in bed at this hour.

“Is there something else?” asked Monroe when she didn’t leave.

Charlie shook her head. Her hands twisted in her lap.

“Are you finding you don’t trust me as entirely as you think you do?” he asked knowingly.

“Yes,” she admitted.

“There’s no shame in that. We do have eternity, figuratively speaking.”

“I lied to you,” she burst out. Monroe blinked in surprise but let her go on. The words charged out of her like a flood. “I have someone. Not Dustin. Someone else. A human. I’ve been worried about her. Even lately, though, I’ve felt wrong. Zari said I should just let her go, but I can’t. I’m not a mother. This wasn’t fair to put it on me. I’ve done my best but it’s like there’s this glass wall, like I can’t feel properly, like I’m… I’m not human.”

“Who is it?” The voice was gentler than Charlie expected.

“Her name’s Bella,” she whispered. “She’s my little sister. She’s only seven.”

Monroe turned off the car. The sudden quiet was like a gunshot. “Does she know what you are?”

Charlie shook her head. The pressure mounted and a bloody tear edged from her eyes. She wiped it away. “Dustin does. He’s been helping take care of her.” She considered and revised her words. “He has been taking care of her. I don’t know what to do.”

The words and tears bled out of her and, once she started, she found she couldn’t stop. The sour smell-taste in her nose, but she didn’t sob, didn’t lose herself in the tightness in her chest. Again, that feeling summoned from the depths of that tightness rocked her mind. She wanted her mother. They had never got on, not well, not really. Charlie’s teenage years had distanced them — unknown friends, strange hobbies, asserted independence. She wanted her mother, except not really. More just the thought of a mom, not specifically hers. Mom was too sharp to carry her, to hold so tight that once she let go of, Charlie would be unable to forget that feeling.

Maybe she hadn’t dealt with her mother’s death as well as she should’ve. 

“Can I meet her? I swear, she’s in no danger in my presence.” 

Charlie jumped at the voice, half-forgotten where she was. Then, she heard the words. She scrubbed the tears from her face and found her breath again.

There was so much gentle authority that Charlie wanted to trust it. Wanted to beg him to untangle the headphone cables her life had become. Wanted  _ someone _ to take her guilt and abandoned responsibility away from her.

“What are you going to do?” asked Charlie, already stepping out of the car.

Monroe followed her. Given a position of authority, he appeared fully recovered from his emotional moment. “I don’t know yet. I can understand how it would be difficult to leave a child behind. Does she have anyone else?”

The full Thanksgiving table flashed into her mind again. “It’s complicated.”

She turned her key in the door, but it didn’t open. She had  _ locked  _ it. Had she forgotten to lock it before heading out tonight? Charlie doubted it. Her fingers shook, but she didn’t know why. She could barely get the key in the lock the second time.

“It’s alright,” said Monroe calmly. “I don’t hurt children.”

Charlie opened the door. The living room light was still on. A TV ran the news quietly. The babysitter often fell asleep on the couch with her coursework. 

Charlie reached over the couch, but no one was there. A textbook and notebook spread across the coffee table. Fear pounded in her head. She ran upstairs, sneakers squeaking across the kitchen floor. 

_ Stop. _

Something was wrong. Something compelled her to stop and turn on the kitchen light. It hadn’t rained tonight. Her sneakers shouldn’t have squeaked. Then, she smelled it. Old blood.

The light revealed what she smelled. Spilled human blood on the kitchen floor, on the carpet of the stairs. A bloody hand smeared it across the wall. A trail of breadcrumbs, if Hansel and Gretel had been serial killers.

Charlie shook with such force she almost felt her heart rattle in her chest. No. No. No. She thought she had been so careful. If no one knew, no one could hurt her.

“Charlie,” Monroe called, but she had bolted upstairs. He followed her.

On the upstairs landing, the babysitter had made her final stand. She was a young woman, a college student, in skinny jeans and a sweater. Her grey sweatshirt had turned brown-red, soaked with blood from a wound in her stomach. A white-grey colour touched her skin and Charlie realised that the tone she had associated with vampires was only the colour of the dead.

She couldn’t remember the babysitter’s name.

Charlie lost her nerve. As soon as she touched the door to Bella’s room, she collapsed, too frightened of what might be beyond it. The babysitter’s judgmental unseeing eyes glared. The dead mouth moved.

_ You did this. You killed Bella _ .

“No, no, no.” Charlie covered her heads and ducked her head, but the voice continued. The walls slipped into water. She shut her eyes, but that was no better. A maze of red wires, red strands, red veins. Blood. Fire. Iron. Home invaders. Gunshot. The high pitched shriek of a little girl. A woman, scrambling in her last moments to save the child.

A hand grabbed her shoulder.

Charlie wrenched and hit the illusion, but it was only Monroe. He knelt down next to her.

“Don’t tell me,” she pleaded. “Please. I can smell the blood. Please.”

“She’s not dead,” he told her. “She’s gone.”


	16. Amsterdam

For the first time in Monroe’s exceptionally long memory, he found himself making promises he didn’t know if he could realistically keep. 

_ Bella will not die. _

_ I will get her back safely. _

_ We will find her. _

The fact of the matter remained that, even unrealistic, his promises became prophecy. He would keep them, simply because there was no other choice.

Charlie, too, had moved into Blue Moon. She gave him information about Dustin Cohen and begged to keep him and his family safe, as well. She blamed Monroe, he knew. It was easier than blaming herself. 

Monroe spent the next nights locked in his private office, in front of a whiteboard with a red pen. Hawthorne used blue. The board was a mess of names and puzzle pieces, motivations and alliances. He hated this game. Loathed it with ever fiber of his being. He had refused to play it for decades. Look where it had gotten him.

Ashley Swan. By this point, he surely found another set of thinblood alchemists. He had powers still unknown to them. Monroe owed him a major boon, but he remained quite fond of Zari. Held ambitions of baronhood and, to this aim, had a formal alliance with them. Would he ally with Vaughn if it meant more power? Monroe didn’t know if he could play Russian roulette with favours again. 

Manuel Rubio. Monroe thought he had taken him off the board. The Setite had no interest in politics or kindred power. His ambitions were entirely earthly — a restaurant, friends, respect. He ran his snake brewery mainly for those aims and fell short, every time. Then again, Garcia could offer those same things. He could’ve gotten there first.

Orsay Grimaldi. Tzimisce witch. Isolationist, but receptive to business and fair trade. Monroe knew her powers of scrying, flesh-shaping, and warding. Where would she stand in a Camarilla conflict as an ex-Sabbat and nominal Anarch?

Ryuko. Jack’s mage lover. Human but ageless. Greedy and power-hungry, likely strong enough to handle kindred society. He offered espionage and his services, but how much did Jack really know about him? How certain was he that Ryuko had never met another kindred?

The Ace of Spades. Reluctant vampire, long-time hunter. Hiding out, in fear of the blood bond Garcia had put her under. Iron will to resist it like that. Too powerful for her own good. Lasombra always were. Useless, for now, though she would owe him dearly if he killed Garcia.

And Salvador Garcia. Anarch revolutionary, baron of half the city, living eternally in MacNeil’s shadow. He broke the Masquerade, bonded a hunter, and did he best to tear Monroe down. He remained the most likely culprit for Bella’s kidnapping. Why? The easy answer would be that it would splinter Monroe’s coterie. It was such an inelegant answer. Garcia must’ve never Dansed before. His inexperience made him clumsy. The Anarchs’ chaos made him desperate. When he learned of Vaughn and his praxis, he would become reckless. Waiting was not possible, though. Garcia wouldn’t use the child as a bargaining chip if he found proof Monroe was an infiltrator. 

Bella’s kidnapping played more to Monroe’s advantage than Garcia’s, in truth. Dead or alive, it provided him a crucial rallying call.  _ The baron eats babies.  _ Just as Garcia couldn’t out and out declare Monroe a Camarilla loyalist without proof, no matter how disliked he was, Monroe couldn’t assassinate a baron.

Garcia would have to lose populist opinion.

Most Anarchs were young and still outraged by mortal sensibilities.

Hawthorne swayed in her chair. It squeaked. “A light bulb just went off. I can see it.”

“We need to force Garcia’s hand,” said Monroe, pointing to the name of his next childe. Valeria Gomez. “He must Embrace that girl before she gets any older.”

Fuel to the fire. A twelve-year-old, turning thirteen in a few weeks. Centuries ago, it wasn’t uncommon to Embrace teenagers. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen-year-olds. Anything younger raised too many eyebrows, not to mention the emotional development and impulse control never matured.

Hawthorne came to a stop. “You want me to kill a preteen?”

“Almost. Leave her in hospital,” said Monroe indifferently. “Something that will heal with the Embrace.”

She gave it a moment’s thought. “Drive by shooting?”

“Perfect.” Monroe had no connections to human gangs or the mob. Garcia wouldn’t immediately suspect him. In fact, he might suspect Ashley.

Monroe checked his phone again. It was 3 December and well into the night. It rang. Dawson.

“What?” he asked.

“Sir, I have someone to see you, sir.”

“Name?”

“Sir, he says it’s Anton Ritter. Sir.”

The name chilled his blood. He looked to Hawthorne and nodded. She leapt to her feet and pushed the whiteboard back into the closet and locked it.

“Send him up, alone. Don’t keep guns on him.”

“Sir, are you—”

Monroe hung up. “It’s his ghoul.”

Hawthorne snorted. “Pieterzoon’s getting old.”

“Just European.”

The Old World did things differently. Some Camarilla princes held their cities since before the founding of the Camarilla. Mithras, the ancient blood god and Vaughn’s ancestor, had ruled London as the Romans settled it and still did — from torpor, by his childe and steward. Prince Francois Villion held Paris for a thousand years, among the Toreador Courts of Love which long out lasted their human counterpart. Hardestadt, the founder of the Camarilla and Pieterzoon’s sire, ruled the Fiefs of the Black Cross, a land that alternatively became the Ottoman Empire and Northern Europe. 

Pieterzoon had begun to mistrust technology, evidently, and instead sent his ghoul like a messenger pigeon. If Monroe wasn’t so nervous, he might’ve found it funny.

As he and Hawthorne moved to his front office, she took up a position that was alien in the extreme. She stood against the wall behind him, a hand on the gun at her hip as though it were a sword, and her eyes on the middle distance. As Monroe watched her, her expression quivered and she smiled.

“God, you’re gonna make me ruin it,” she hissed.

The elevator opened. Ritter wasn’t nearly as old as Hawthorne, but his service affected him dearly. He retained little human presentation. Rather, he appeared more Ventrue even than Carlyle Loraine. Stiff, emotionless, a mannequin who inherited his master’s preference for wingtips and tailored English suits.

Ritter didn’t say a word. He gracefully dropped to a knee in the middle of the room, crossed his left arm over it, bowed his head, and lifted his right hand in offer.

Monroe hadn’t had someone kneel to him in a long time. Despite being on guard, both he and his Beast responded. He had worn his iron sigil ring — the crossed sword and scepter of Ventrue, ringed with nine stars for his Generation, marked by his year of Embrace and the childe of Ventru who he descended from. He let Ritter kiss it and then turn his wrist over and kiss the juncture of veins. Like most Camarilla customs, they had first been Ventrue. Now, Toreador princes wore gold rings of flowers and other rot, not knowing the origins.  _ To rule in Blood is to rule in truth _ .

Something ached in the action and touched Monroe. A dozen generations of Ventrue had done the same thing across the millenia. He forgot how he missed that sense of legacy.

Ritter stood and waited to be addressed. Rather than lowering his head, he maintained an eye contact with minimal blinking.

“Mr Ritter, it has been a while,” said Monroe with a welcoming smile. Ghouls had little enough kindness in their lives. “I trust Mr Pieterzoon is well.”

“He sends his regards, sir. He has a message, sir.”

“I’m sure he does,” he said dryly.

“ ‘Follow my servant. Alone, please. We have much to discuss.’ End message, sir.”

Blunt. To the point. So unlike Pieterzoon, who often sounded like he swallowed a dictionary and thesaurus.

“Lead the way, then,” said Monroe. 

Ritter clicked his heels with military precision, bowed, and turned. Monroe gave Hawthorne one last lingering look as the elevator closed and he followed Pieterzoon’s ghoul. A black town car waited for them in his parking lot. Not only new and expensive, but illegally tinted, like his own, as well as armoured. Pieterzoon expected danger. Rightfully so.

Ritter drove smoothly. He had likely never been in LA, but he navigated without a GPS or map system. No technology. No music. Nothing excess. Money put to work, rather than comfort.

Pieteroon was here to do business.

Monroe composed himself. “How are you, Anton?” he asked.

The ghoul started, confused to be addressed so familiarly. “I’m fine, sir, thank you.”

“I hope your journey went smoothly.”

“It did, sir.”

“You could’ve contacted my retainer,” he offered. “Los Angeles can be troublesome to enter quietly.”

“We managed. Thank you, though. I will remember the offer, sir.”

_ We _ . Surely not Ritter and Pieterzoon. Ghouls didn’t think of their masters in such terms. Pieterzoon had brought a retinue. Likely other ghouls. Most Ventrue traveled as such, for their feeding conditions if nothing else. Monroe considered himself lucky that orphans were common enough.

Monroe memorized the route, though there was little need. Ritter took them into Beverly Glen. Funnily enough, only a few miles away from Orsay. Most of the truly expensive houses in the Glen were overly cubic, modern in the extreme. Pieterzoon had chosen a far cheaper option. He didn’t place the same stock in displays of wealth that other Ventrue did. His temporary home away from home appeared like a miniature Parthenon, a mansion of polished white stone and two-storey tall pillars. Ritter pulled past the wrought iron gates and let Monroe step out. He didn’t wait for the ghoul before entering. Ritter was merely staff.

The inside was just as impressive as outside. It must’ve come furnished. A sweeping staircase led upstairs, as a crystal chandelier threw rainbows across a grand piano and a solitary vase of flowers. To kindred noses, they were exquisite. 

Pieterzoon didn’t wait to greet him. Monroe knew he was being watched.

The piano drew his eye again. Pieterzoon would know his musical interests in Los Angeles. Perhaps he wanted to test if Monroe pursued personal interests as well, or if his existence was truly mercenary. Then, the test might become what sort of sound he produced, how acceptable to Ventrue tastes or if he inclined to more modern music, as Anarchs were associated with modern change.

Then again, it could just be a damn piano.

Monroe hated elders.

Even so, he made his way to the piano. It was beautiful. A deep burgundy, marbled gently with black. Monroe let his fingers play a simple scale. In the vast empty hall, the acoustics rebounded at him. He played another, letting them blend into a familiar harmony. It lingered somewhere in the vague vicinity of Chopin.

“Matthew, thank you for coming tonight.”

Pieterzoon had indeed been waiting for him to make a move on the instrument.

The voice came from his left, another room. Dutifully, Monroe followed it into a parlour. The entire house appeared to be an eggshell, offset with burgundy accents. It had that unlived-in designer aesthetic that only came from not being truly inhabited. The windows looked over the lower hills of the Glen and then the lights of Los Angeles, thousands of diamonds on black velvet. 

Pieterzoon turned to face him. It still struck Monroe how little kindred truly changed. If anything, in twenty years, Pieterzoon had changed his suit at most. He was slender as a knife and just as sharp. Every inch the archetype of Nordic nobility, as he had been three centuries ago. He wore a modern blue suit, a small pair of wire-rimmed glasses, and a heavy iron ring. Like the house, he commanded the space and emptiness without any of the frivolity other kindred cultivated.

Three Generations lower, a century and a half older, and the childe of Hardestadt. Not to mention the holder of his life boon.

Monroe knew his place.

As Ritter had done, he knelt and offered his right hand.

Pieterzoon placed a hand on his shoulder. “Stand, Matthew. I ask you here not as a slave but a competent Ventrue. Make yourself at home, cousin.” His voice felt like an earworm, a product of too long using Presence and Dominate to coax others to his side. Soft, cultured, ironic, a strong Dutch accent.

Monroe sat on the couch as though it might explode under him.

Pieterzoon took his chair and held a small glass of whiskey with both hands. Monroe had forgotten that.

“Have you found something amusing?” asked Pieterzoon.

“Not at all, sir.” But Pieterzoon was a master of forcing silence to make others say things they would rather not. “To this night, I have still not met another kindred who enjoys the taste of human food and drink.”

Pieterzoon’s eyebrows twitched. Had he been younger, they might’ve furrowed. “Please, Matthew, I only drink when I’m stressed.” He sipped.

“You’re stressed,” repeated Monroe. “What can I do to alleviate it?”

“First things first,” said Pieterzoon, “you contacted me about the FBI’s Project Twilight. Tell me about them.” 

Any veneer of familiarity left with the order.

Monroe obeyed. 

“My coterie and I found ourselves followed by a team of two. Paige Cordon and Russel Ian. They attacked us in Los Feliz. I managed to subdue and interrogate them. They knew of only my coterie, leading me to believe another kindred fed them information—”

“Hold,” said Pieterzoon. “Elaborate on your manner of subduing them.”

“It was in a public location, a restaurant filled with young kine. They attempted to arrest me and…” Monroe realised where Pieterzoon was going with this. “... and we fought, briefly, in the parking lot.”

“Were you aware of the number of cell phone cameras, which captured the arrest and subsequent brawl?” 

There had been no emotion in his face before. There was none now. His voice had not changed. But the air grew heavy.

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you versed in a new kine development on the internet known as ‘social media’, specifically the websites MySpace and LiveJournal?”

Monroe stared. “Yes, sir,” he said cautiously. Vaguely. Though the words sounded alien coming from Pieterzoon’s mouth, Monroe had a sinking feeling he knew far more than he did.

“Tell me, Matthew, what you think my position in the Camarilla entails?”

“You are your sire’s childe,” said Monroe evenly. “Many name you the Voice of Hardestadt. You operate as an extension of his will as his personal agent and hand in the greater world, known in the Camarilla as an archon.” Pieterzoon waited for more but Monroe didn’t have much else without directly stating him to be his sire’s bitch.

“Hardestadt, my sire, was the pioneer of the Sixth Tradition and enforces it most harshly in the Fiefs of the Black Cross,” he said. “The Masquerade is essential to our continued existence. As his archon, I have amassed a great deal of influence in mortal media to achieve this end. Print media, broadcast news, and, yes, the internet. While directly I may influence as much as thirty percent globally, the other seventy percent will follow the rest. Yet, for all my power, I have but two hands. I extinguish the fires Anarchs and our neonates produce as fast as I can. My vocation is as necessary as it is tireless and thankless. Do not make it more onerous than it needs to be.”

They were only words. Only words. Pieterzoon must have an army of ghouls and kindred associates who would fall over themselves for a chance at Hardestadt’s favour. He had so many more than two hands. In fact, Monroe suspected he only said it to remind him his reach longer than he would say outright.

“I won’t, sir,” said Monroe seriously. His tongue felt numb. It took all he had to not look away from Pieterzoon’s burning gaze. “I understand that I have associated more closely with human affairs than is wise. Thank you, for managing fallout I did not. I will ensure it will not be a problem again.”

Pieterzoon nodded, satisfied. “I investigated this Project Twilight and found several more agents. I believe I informed you.”

“You did, sir. My coterie and I appreciate it. Do you know if other, international, human agencies know about us?”

Monroe had overstepped a mark. He was not here to ask questions. He was here to answer them.

Pieterzoon analyzed him carefully and, as though an answer he would not speak, drank from his glass.

“Apologies, sir.”

“There is nothing to apologize for,” he said lightly. “You haven’t been among your own kind in too long.” He clicked his fingers once in the quiet and Monroe dreaded what they might summon. “What does your coterie know of me?”

“Nothing,” said Monroe truthfully. “If it is alright, sir, I intend to keep it that way. They are Anarch sired neonates.”

“Could they be useful? Tell me of them.”

Monroe struggled to keep his expression stable. He wasn’t in any position to hold back anything. He told Pieterzoon everything he knew. At first, it was easy. As active participants of Los Angeles’ kindred scene, Jack and Zari had plenty of common information. Jack had been sired by one of Nines Rodriguez’s gang, but they still were on bad terms, though he had been fostered by a Malkavian. Zari had an adoptive sire who was more thorn than rose. She ran a successful zine. Charlie he gave the bare minimum for. Then, the questions kept coming.

What is their command of Disciplines?

Do they have ties to any current Anarch barons?

Who are their ghouls, their closest kindred allies, their friends?

Where are their havens?

As neonates, do they have any living human family?

Pieterzoon was many things. Nefarious was not one of them. Monroe admired him greatly, almost as much as he feared him. More truly, he feared the life boon, which he was honour-bound to fulfill, to obey every command, answer every question. Honour warred with loyalty.

“Mr Pieterzoon, sir,” he said, “I allow my coterie to keep their secrets, as all of our kind do. I do not know the fullest extent of their unlives, or even their former mortal lives. What they do not volunteer, I do not ask.”

He waited for Pieterzoon to command him to find it out. Instead, Pieterzoon gave that small, almost imperceptible nod again.

“As to the matter of living human family, that is a personal matter I would like to discuss with you at greater length,” said Monroe.

He had no more time to say anything else, though, because Pieterzoon’s click of the finger had been answered. Four individuals entered the room, single-file. Each of them had a blank expression, but it was not constructed to maintain an appearance of control. Rather, it was the true reflection of their minds. Their minds had been tampered with, past the point of all recovery. One women, three men, shamelessly nude and strongly built. Monroe recognised the faces.

“You found the other agents?” he asked, surprised. He struggled to keep the outrage from his voice as his blood iced.

Worse, still, Pieterzoon had kept them. It was unlike Ventrue, especially unlike him. Pieterzoon did not broker risks. He was not cruel. It was another test. Monroe had been under the impression Pieterzoon did not play these games either. 

Pieterzoon gestured with his glass. “I’ve disassembled Project Twilight. Each member of the team has quit and provided their superiors with a false paper trail. As per their former prejudice, I’ve dealt with them. If you would take them, they are yours.”

“Absolutely not,” said Monroe immediately. He cringed. He should’ve given the appearance of thinking over the offer. “Thank you for your generosity, sir. They would—”

“Don’t lie to me. Tell me what you think. Truly.” Pieterzoon leaned close and gave Monroe the uncomfortable impression he could read minds. His voice snapped with a calm that threatened more than had he yelled. “I accepted your life boon because you are a rare breed. You are exactly what you appear to be. Do you mean to tell me that merely three years among brutish Anarchs has robbed you of your candor?”

“No, sir.”

“Then, speak your mind. If I wanted an automaton, I would make one.”

Monroe opened and closed his mouth. The truth would earn him a slap, possibly a lot worse. Fowler murmured in Pieterzoon’s calm, cold threat. Ventrue were the most dangerous when they sounded the most genial.

“This disgusts me,” he said with the smile of one who knew it would be the last thing he said. “These FBI agents might have been hunters, but robbing men and women of their dignity for doing their own righteous job is heartless and unnecessary. It feeds the greedy ego of the Domitor. Nothing more. We’re meant to be better than our Beasts.”

Slowly, Pieterzoon began to smile. His eyes crinkled with the motion but there was no spark of joy. “What should I have done with them?”

“After the team was dispersed, you should’ve killed them.”

“Do it.”

Monroe stood. The agents gave no indication they understood the conversation. Their eyes blinked, their hearts beat, lungs breathed, but they were little more than vessels for Pieterzoon’s will. It was another test. Would he drink them? Shoot them? How would he end their lives?

One by one, he put a gentle hand around their necks and wrenched to the side. They collapsed where they stood, utterly unresponsive. One stepped to the side to avoid falling over as the agent next to them died. It had been a long time since Monroe had been commanded to execute someone like this. He didn’t like it. He held tight to the feeling.

Monroe knew he passed the test when he sat back down. Pieterzoon had relaxed and watched him fondly, like he often had in New York. Pieterzoon had been the last archon he had contacted and the lead strategist of the Siege of New York against the Sabbat. They had worked closely for most of the nineties. A flood of relief passed through him as he realised things hadn’t changed. Not an iota. Pieterzoon was, once again, someone trustworthy, a Ventrue of genuine honour and dignity. He loathed the posturing as much as Monroe did, despite his silver spoon.

“If you want me to speak my mind, I don’t appreciate these kind of games,” said Monroe irritably. “I thought that after New York you and I would be past this.”

Pieterzoon smiled again. Unlike most kindred, the action wasn’t entirely alien to him, but it was practiced. “You started it. If you hadn’t knelt, I would’ve had them killed later tonight.”

“Are you here to make sure Vaughn wins?” asked Monroe brazenly. “I’ve been waiting years for you to spirit me away to Amsterdam, or command something unsavoury in America—”

“Unsavoury?” asked Pieterzoon, outraged, or at least as upset as Monroe had seen him. “I never would. Matthew, understand this because I will say it only once more: you are not a slave. By virtue of your debt and the honour I know you hold, I consider you a trusted ally. I would never ask you to do a thing I would not do myself.”

Garcia was right.

“I appreciate that,” said Monroe. He meant it.

Monroe sympathised now with Hawthorne, who had once spoken of the importance of a good master. Pieterzoon was an improvement over Garlotte. 

Pietezoon accepted it and began to relax again. “You contacted me about the Ace of Spades, as well. Since you are not dead, am I correct in my assumption you killed the hunter?”

“You are incorrect in your assumption,” he said. “Ace has been Embraced by a Lasombra, a decade ago.”

Pieterzoon frowned. “Ah. It would be like the magisters to curse a hunter with powers to become a truly troublesome threat. Have you been unable to locate her?”

“I made a deal with her. She is no longer a threat,” said Monroe. He had to lay his cards on the table. “This brings me to a personal matter of great importance. Salvador Garcia found her, blood bonded her, and sent her after me. According to the Ace, he alerted the FBI and fed them information about me after she escaped. He has begun to target my operations and reputation, what little the Anarchs do think of me. As of three nights ago, Charlie Bradley’s seven-year-old human sister was kidnapped and I believe him to be responsible, as well.”

Pieterzoon thought slowly and silently. The whiskey in his glass tilted as he contemplated. Somewhere else in the house, a great clock ticked. Ghouls haunted the house like ghosts. The great ivory house became a tomb.

“I did not have plans to kill any of the barons,” said Pieterzoon at last. “As futile as it may seem, I intend to offer them a chance to live under Camarilla rule in exchange for letting them keep their domain. In this, at least, Vaughn has accepted my counsel. It is always better when, during a change in leadership, change as little as absolutely necessary. Masses will accept familiar faces more than a conquering army. Many, in fact, care little for what title they call their masters so long as they are left alone.”

He hadn’t said he wouldn’t help.

Monroe didn’t interrupt him as he deigned to continue sharing his thoughts. He was familiar with Pieterzoon’s methods of thinking.

“To convert Garcia to living as a Camarilla lord would be a deep blow to the Movement, as violent sentiment would be absorbed by him rather than the Camarilla as a sect. I cannot turn him into a martyr. I wish not to begin a war. New York was laborious enough, against the Sabbat, but a true battle with Anarchs will lead to more casualties than I am comfortable with. Of course, we outnumber them and could outlast any out-and-out street war.”

We. We. Camarilla ‘we’? Did he include Monroe in that? Likely. There are no Ventrue Anarchs. All Ventrue, by virtue of blood, were Camarilla. Perhaps he only meant himself and Monroe, as though this was New York again and the command room under the World Trade Center.

“I could protect you,” mused Pieterzoon, staring at Monroe as though he couldn’t hear him. “By virtue of our clan, I offer you succor in my domain. Still, you could do much more so long as the Anarchs accept you as part of their Los Angeles.” He sighed. “Garcia will need to be eliminated, I suppose. I value your contributions in the grand scheme of things more than whatever shield Garcia’s betrayal of the Movement might create. His elimination is best to come from within. Tell me about him.”

Though he had not said in so many words, Monroe breathed a sigh of relief as the burden lifted from his shoulders. He told everything he knew. Most of Garcia’s legend was common knowledge. How he had killed the last prince — an elder of Pieterzoon’s age and Generation — in single combat, a feat none have replicated since. How he continued to be a major feature of Rants and a populist speaker. How MacNeil named him his successor to the Barony of Angels and how Garcia tried and failed to control it. The legend more than the man himself was beloved. Garcia’s gang, El Hermandad, followed him almost religiously.

“I have an idea,” said Monroe in the end. “If I could, I’d like to run it by you. I might need some assistance in some matter.”

Pieterzoon drained the rest of his glass and refilled it from a decanter, clearly anticipating a long night. “Of course, Matthew. I am here to help.”

Monroe wanted to believe it. In all his years, Pieterzoon was the only Ventrue he knew to display the same genuine honour he himself felt. Always, though, in the back of his mind, he wondered if Pieterzoon only mirrored him to gain his trust.

  
  


Bella was gone.

Nothing else mattered.

She could be in danger. She could be dead. 

Dustin didn’t return her calls or her texts.

Hawthorne had handled all the paperwork, filed a missing persons report promptly, and beat the police off with a stick. Charlie locked herself in Blue to avoid facing the world. It was all she was good for. Hiding. Pretending she didn’t exist.

She didn’t exist. There was no pretending about it.

She spent her nights in a booth at Blue, long before the music started and long after it ended. Jack came with the new kittens he was training. Zari showed her December’s  _ Fifth Estate _ and edited her second draft of the January UCLA classes article. They could do nothing. She guessed one of them carried her back to bed at dawn, because she woke up there every evening.

For now, Charlie sat in the booth with a cup of untouched water. She didn’t think she was invisible, but eyes slid right past her. She lay her head in her arms. The cool table pressed against her forehead. It soothed the scrabbling static. Sometimes, it sounded like little fingernails scraping on prison walls, or screams, or shrill begging in a small voice, or—

A hand shoved her. She ignored it.

“You’re Charlie Bradley. Monroe’s Malkavian.”

She shrugged. She didn’t know the voice.

“There’s a way to kill you guys. This isn’t it.”

Charlie raised her eyes from the table. The woman sat across from her was painfully white, almost like chalk. Her hair, her skin. Her clothes were ink black, her eyes filled with oil like an alien. She was built like an ox, or a house, all sharp edges of bulk and pointed features.

The static rose like a plucked red string.

_ Ledger of black blood. _

“My name’s Jesse Harper.”

Charlie shook her head and peered through the Cobweb, embracing it fully. What ledger? A glistening fuzzy light eminanted from her. An aura. Stark white, but shot through with dense shadows and bolts of black lightning. The Cobweb filled in the details. White, for the living dead, black, for their devouring. Each lightning bolt another vampire that she had eaten in the last year, shadows for those she had eaten over many years.

“The Ace of Spades,” said Charlie indifferently. “What do you want?”

Jesse stared at her in confusion and horror. “How did — Monroe told you.”

“No.”

“How?”

“It made sense. Kill me and get it over with.”

“I’m not here to kill you.”

“What happened to hunting us?”

“That’s over. I made a deal with Monroe.”

“Yeah, he does that.”

Charlie followed the Cobweb strands on the table with her finger, drawing meaningless lines. She didn’t have any anymore. She was not human. It was only a matter of time before she truly lost it.

Shaken, Jesse seemed to lose her cool. “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t,” said Charlie quietly. “Can’t stand pity.”

“Ever wonder how a human finds out and starts hunting?”

“No, but I bet you’re gonna tell me. Mommy and Daddy got sucked dry?”

“My little brother, actually,” said Jesse. Even with the grim topic, her voice held steady. “I was at home watching him. Someone broke in and… Parents never forgave me. Never said, but I know they blamed me.”

“Bella’s not dead,” said Charlie.

“Listen, I know what leeches do when they take a juicebag.”

Charlie flinched. “Don’t you talk about her like that.”

Jesse shrugged and sneered. “You think she’s gonna get a quick end? Nah, it’ll be days,  _ weeks _ —”

“Shut up.” Charlie tried to shake the words loose, but they took root and started growing.

“—and she’ll be completely brainwashed. She’ll love it—”

“ _ Shut up _ .” Charlie reached with a mental mallet, but found nothing. The command fractured on impact. She grabbed Jesse’s large, spider-like hands. “Please, just stop,” she begged. “Are you just here to torture me?”

Jesse’s eyes shone. “I’m here to help you guys save her.”

Charlie swallowed. Impossible, but she would take any help she could get. Even if it wasn’t real. “You wanna come downstairs? Monroe went out, but, there’s Jack and Zari.”

Jesse wrinkled her nose at the thought of other vampires. “Fine.”

Charlie led her to the elevator and hit the button. Jack and Zari watched a movie with Hawthorne, arguing, as always. Hawthorne jumped to her feet and reached for her gun.

“ _ Sit down, bitch _ ,” snapped Jesse.

Hawthorne sat on the ground, hard, like a puppet with her strings cut.

“Who the fuck are you?” demanded Jack. He advanced on her. 

Charlie realised that, maybe, it hadn’t been such a good idea.

“She says she can help us rescue Bella,” she said.

Hawthorne peeled herself off the floor, but fell again, an invisible force pinning her. “It’s the Ace of Spades,” she said with loathing. “Garcia’s bondslave.”

“I’m no one’s slave,” said Jesse.

Already an intimidating figure, Jesse became something truly otherworldly. The few pale shadows in the basement darkened and gathered into shapes that didn’t reflect anything. They manifested like a cloak of lost souls around her shoulders. Charlie was transfixed.

“Watch it,” Zari cried out. She pulled Jack backwards. “Lasombra. Charlie, get away from her.”

Charlie met Jesse’s pitch black eyes. The Lasombra’s smile was ice and burned like fire.

“Monroe promised he would break my bond if I stopped killing,” she said. “I’ve stopped killing. Mostly. Didn’t expect anything, really, but now y’all are in a bind. Bella.”

“You can only break a bond if you kill the master,” said Zari.

Jesse spread her arms. Shadows filtered down like a crow’s wings. “Looks like we all want Garcia dead. I know his base, in and out.”

“Give it to me,” ordered Hawthorne. Jesse sneered. “I’m a ghoul,” she snapped. “More powerful than you think. I might be able to get in and out during daytime, when El Hermandad are all sleeping, before anyone finds out.”

Jesse’s lip peeled back further into an animalistic snarl. “Garcia needs to die.”

“Do you want to kill Garcia or rescue Bella?” asked Hawthorne. 

“Monroe said he’d kill Garcia.”

“Monroe said he would break your bond.” Hawthorne inclined her head. “He’s still looking.”

“How long have you and Monroe known her?” asked Jack, confusion turning into anger.

“Few weeks,” said Hawthorne reluctantly, not taking her eyes off Jesse.

Jack stared at Hawthorne wordlessly.

Zari caught Charlie’s eye. “Vampires keep secrets.”

Jesse’s smile only widened. “Look at that.” she drawled. “Apparently monsters are… well, monsters.”

“Look in the mirror,” said Jack with disgust. “We’re all in the same boat now. Least we can do is be civil to each other.”

“Lasombra don’t have reflections,” said Zari snidely.

“It’s just a figure of speech.”

“Choose a new one.”

“I didn’t choose to be in this boat,” Jesse shouted, interrupting their argument. “I was killing your kind and some monster jumped me and killed me and perverted my corpse.”

“You think any of us choose this?” demanded Charlie. Her mouth fell open as she stared. “Who the  _ fuck _ would want to… lose themselves and everyone they loved, to assault people, drink blood, become supernatural freaks of nature?”

The shadows around Jesse flickered. She blinked and opened her mouth stupidly.

Charlie shoved her. Jesse let her. She stumbled against the elevator.

“Wanna kill us for being evil monsters? Fucking fine. You got a point,” spat Charlie. “But don’t you  _ dare _ tell me that I chose this hell. That I chose to have Bella…” She couldn’t finish. “Fuck you,” she said instead.

Jesse recovered herself and looked at Zari and Jack in a new light, and not one she liked at all.

“No one gets a choice,” said Zari. “We all got shit on and now we have to deal with it. So, grow out of whatever angsty angry teenage phase you were Embraced in, and help us save Bella — if you weren’t just bullshitting.”

Jesse glanced at Charlie again, before addressing them. “I can draw the base from memory,” she said in a very different voice. “Give me paper and a pen.”

Charlie couldn’t follow most of it. Jesse and Hawthorne sketched out Greystone, marking patrols, eyelines, and points of interest. Charlie had only been to the place once and had been too terrified to really take stock of things. They moved onto an interior layout.

“He keeps a ton of your kind,” warned Jesse. “Human slaves.”

“Not human. Not a slave,” said Hawthorne crisply. “I can deal with them.”

“How?”

“Kill or incapacitate, whichever is more convenient.”

“You are a bitch,” said Jesse before moving on.

“Did you think I would be nice just because I’m not a vampire?” Hawthorne laughed bitterly. “Where were you held captive?”

Jesse continued on. Her first nights had been a prisoner in the basement, but then Garcia had relied on the bond to leash her close. She had a remarkable memory, sketching out the rooms, doors, and windows of the colossal mansion. “I figured I might be back,” she said sheepishly.

“What about the other prisoners?” asked Jack. “You weren’t alone?”

Jesse scratched her head. “Leeches. I thought that was strange.”

“Names? Identifying marks? Anything?” asked Jack. “Hear anything about clans?”

“Tara was one of them,” Jesse gave with a shrug. “Red hair. Mean anything?”

They exchanged looks and shrugged.

Hawthorne steered the conversation back to the floorplan. “I’ll run this by Mr Monroe,” she said at last, gathering the papers together.

“Why would you help us?” asked Jack. “You spent all that time hunting and trying to kill us.”

Jesse raised her eyes from the table. “This world doesn’t need another dead kid,” she said quietly. “I’m not here helping you. I’m helping her.”

“And when she’s safe?” asked Zari.

Jesse only smiled. Somehow, the shadows smiled with her.


	17. A Message Delivered

When Rubio turned up on Blue Moon’s doorstep with a face like death, Monroe feared the worst. He wouldn’t say a word until they had the privacy of his office and, even then, only handed out a folded piece of paper.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “This has absolutely nothing to do with taking sides. I’m still rooting for you, man, but… Garcia’s baron. It’s just a note, right?”

Rubio sat, his stress plain to see on every inch of his body.

In the moments before he handed it over, a dozen thoughts ran through Monroe’s head. Bella was dead. No, a ransom, a threat. To make Monroe leave Los Angeles. Easy enough, if he could ever have reassurance that Garcia would return the girl. He would even face Seattle at the prospect of ending this quickly and bloodlessly.

Monroe took the paper. 

The message was simple enough, a scrap of basic cheap printer paper with one line at the top.

_ Come to Greystone tonight at 10pm. Alone. _

Monroe wasn’t an idiot. He couldn’t go alone. Even if Garcia barred ghouls from the estate, he had every right to be on Greystone whenever he wanted. So did Jack, Zari, and Charlie. As far as Garcia knew, Monroe didn’t know anything of the Danse. Unless Rubio had told him. Unlikely. 

Too many moving parts. Too many balls in the air. Only a matter of time until one fell. 

Monroe scrunched the paper and threw it in a wastebasket. 

Rubio still hadn’t left. “Don’t go,” he said.

Using Rubio to deliver it was deliberate, a display of Garcia’s strength the real message.  _ Look how your accomplices will obey me. _

“Do you know something?” asked Monroe heavily. He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands. “Would you tell me if you did?”

Rubio looked defeated. “Man, I  _ wish _ I knew. I hate this.”

Monroe believed him. “Get out of here,” he said gently. “You’ve done what Garcia wants. This will all be over soon, one way or another.”

Rubio left. Monroe turned from the office back into his private quarters. Hawthorne stood in front of the whiteboard, her blue pen in hand as she amended both Rubio’s and Ace’s names. Another new name had appeared on his board. Jan Pieterzoon. A player, possibly the only one he knew to be on his side.

“Are the plans genuine?” he asked, picking up the stack of hastily drawn floorplans of Greystone.

“I’ve compared them to the city’s plans,” said Hawthorne. “Kindred do tend to alter things — see, the basement dungeon — but I think the security intel is correct.”

“How confident are you in such a mission?” he asked. 

Hawthorne ground her teeth. “Somewhat,” she admitted. “Six out of ten. If this information is accurate, I might be able to get in and out during daytime, with the girl. Raufuss would help, but... We can’t, I’m sure you figured that out, too.”

Monroe didn’t need her to elaborate. Garcia would know it had been Hawthorne and, then, he had revealed too much. The extent of Hawthorne’s abilities, the fact he knew of Garcia’s vendetta, access to plans. Also, retrieving Bella, while a short-term goal, would do nothing about Garcia’s rage other than enhance it and he would retaliate.

Monroe spotted Valeria Gomez’s name. It had two strikes through it. “Did Garcia take the bait?” he asked.

“I suspect so,” said Hawthorne. “She vanished from the hospital two days ago. Sloppy. Only now are they reporting she died.”

Monroe nodded. That gave him another piece. Garcia, whether out of possessiveness or genuine fondness, didn’t want to let his would-be childe die. And because the one thing kindred were all good at was gossiping, the entire city knew he had Embraced a twelve-year-old.

These weeks had been rough on everyone. Had he not known better, he would’ve said Hawthorne bore the brunt of it. But, she seemed to be unaffected by putting four bullets in a preteen. Though he had ordered it, Monroe enjoyed a certain distance from the grisly act. In moments like these, he wondered who was the vampire and who the ghoul.

“Rubio had a message from Garcia,” he said.

“Oh?”

“ _ Come alone at 10pm _ . I want you to find your perch in Bird Streets with a sniper. It won’t kill anyone, but it’ll buy me some time, if I need it.”

Hawthorne turned. “Absolutely. Whatever you need.”

Monroe frowned. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, sir.” The corners of her mouth tightened as she realised her mistake. “I don’t mean to burden you—”

Monroe reached out. She let him lay a hand on her shoulder. Even as hunted outcasts on the edge of Camarilla domains, never had their position been so precarious. Her eyes were heavy, dark lidded and, though they flicked away, always returned to his.

“Did you eat?” he asked. “Have you been sleeping? Do you need blood?”

Hawthorne trembled slightly. Her arm jerked in indecision and then she wrapped them around him. Stunned, Monroe slowly returned the hug. The contact felt alien. Her chest rose and fell against his. As he rested his head against hers, he felt the frightened heartbeat. Her scent filled his nose. Almond and cherry, and musk, and his blood in her veins. Bit by bit, her heartbeat calmed and, despite not having one, he felt the same.

“We will be okay,” he whispered to her. “I promise you. I promised it in San Francisco, when Fowler died. I promised it in Atlanta, when we fled Delacroix. I promised it in Chicago, and DC, and Nashville, and New Orleans, and New York, and Baltimore. And I promise it again. We  _ will _ find a way.”

Hawthorne avoided his eye when she stepped out of the hug. “I think I will have something to eat, before we leave,” she said awkwardly. “I haven’t eaten in a few days.”

“Of course,” he said. “The bar is always open.”

Some of the awkwardness eased from her shoulders. “I’m thinking french fries. Did you have fries, as a human?”

Monroe smiled. “I’m not  _ that _ old.”

Hawthorne brushed away a lock of hair that didn’t exist. She smiled at the floor, privately. “Right, hot dog,” she said. “They’re good. Salty, greasy. Garlic and parmesan.”

“Have a balanced meal,” he said. The phrase had been dredged from the back of his mind. Clearly he didn’t use it right. She chuckled. Her eyes shone like glass, but she smiled.

“Fries are a balanced meal,” she said. “Vegetables, in potatoes and ketchup. Protein from the parm.”

“Go eat,” he told her gently.

Monroe felt the sharp edge of shame as she left him alone, as though he had done something he shouldn’t have. It gnawed at him as he reevaluated the board. A master of burying his feelings, he shoved the unearned shame away. He could evaluate that another night.

Clearly, he couldn’t go alone. Even Hawthorne’s eye on a sniper wouldn’t be enough. Briefly, Monroe considered Ashley. It would likely surprise Garcia, knock him off-kilter. Then again, Ashley’s allegiance was uncertain. If he saw better prospects partnering with Garcia, Monroe couldn’t earnestly say Ashley would remain loyal.

Jack would be what Garcia expected. Older than Zari, a Gangrel fighter, muscle like a bodyguard. Charlie was clearly out of the equation. She could fly into a frenzy if she saw Garcia.

That left Zari. Not a fighter, liked as an Anarch with an untarnished reputation. December’s  _ Fifth Estate _ had sold as well as November’s. Garcia wouldn’t see her as a threat. But did that mean he expected her because it was so  _ unexpected _ ?

Monroe secreted away his whiteboard and wandered downstairs. Hawthorne had ordered basket of fries from the bar and ate them alone in the basement, with Jack, Zari, and Charlie. Jesse Harper, a new and unwelcome feature of the coterie, was nowhere to be seen. A television show played on their TV.

They turned as one as he made an appearance.

“Zari, I have a favour to ask you,” he said.

Uncertain, Zari stood and followed him back upstairs. Even with her height, of which her hair was an additional three inches, few could be intimidated by the slender woman who drowned herself in sweaters. Tonight, she wore gold hoops on her ears and wrists.

“Did something happen?” she asked urgently.

Monroe told her about Garcia’s message.

“Well, you’re not going alone,” she scoffed.

He grimaced and raised an eyebrow.

“Ah. Okay.” Zari nodded. “Should we bring Ashley, or any of his childer?”

Monroe shook his head. “I do appreciate you coming,” he said. “I honestly don’t know what it’s about. I’m trusting Garcia will respect the peace of his own neutral zone, but I can’t be sure. It may be dangerous.”

Zari opened her arms, as if to indicate the prison-fortress Blue Moon had become. “Matt, I haven’t left here in almost two weeks. If you asked me to go back into the revival theatre after Jack again, I’d say, ‘hell yeah’.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” said Monroe.

Zari’s mouth fell open. “It was  _ terrible _ . I’ve never been so scared in my life.”

“I know, my dear,” he said. “It was very scary.”

She hit him in the arm. It probably hurt her more.

“Ouch,” he said with a smile.

Zari narrowed her eyes, but they sparkled as they made their way to the cars. Monroe took the SUV. While he felt somewhat confident about Garcia respecting Greystone, he was far less confident about leaving safely. He knew from unfortunate experience that the SUV could take a few hits.

As he texted Hawthorne that they were leaving, she replied that she was kitting up. Her eye on the horizon reassured him.

“Nervous?” asked Zari. She curled into the seat and put her dusty sneakers on the dash.

“No,” he lied.

Monroe doubted there was a Rant, but Greystone was still filled with faces and fangs. Tonight, they played baseball, drank from dolls and solo cups of snake beer, shot each other as they did complex acrobatics across bonfires. Some things never changed. 

As he parked, Hawthorne texted him again.  _ In position.  _ It was little comfort. He felt like he had in Camarilla domains as they entered Greystone. Eyes followed him, averting as he turned. Malevolent whispers dogged his shadow. Some stared openly, cracking knuckles or sneering. He wondered what they had heard. Monroe put a hand around Zari protectively.

Before he turned up the steps to the manor where Garcia surely sat, Monroe glanced beyond the lawns, the parking lot, and high into the hills. Somewhere, there, among the few lights of the upper-middle-class houses, was Hawthorne and a sniper. He drew as much strength from it as he could, and he turned up the last steps.

Rather than loitering in front of the house, Garcia had left the front door open and lights on. Monroe stepped in and motioned to Zari to keep behind him. The manor was an opulent artifact of the turn of the last century, beautifully preserved. Distinctly un-Anarch. 

Garcia leaned over the railing of the second floor landing, waiting. A cigarette dangled from his mouth. As though a concession for the house, he had changed from his standard flannel and jeans and into a black suit, though old-fashioned. It fit him well. A bit of hair gel and he could pass for Camarilla.

“Got your message,” said Monroe. “Something you want to share?”

Monroe kept his eyes on the other rooms, but Garcia appeared to be alone. For now.

Garcia snorted. “The natures of our kind are manifold. We drink blood, and so we become violent. We hide in the night, and so we become secretive. We never age, and so we lose touch with mortal values.”

Monroe recognised the sermon tone. His best chance was to act as belligerent as any of them. Groveling respect was characteristic of the Camarilla.

“I didn’t come here to have you preach at me,” he said. “I’d come to a Rant if I wanted to hear it.”

“You did not get my message,” said Garcia. He took a drag and flicked the burning ember at Monroe. He didn’t flinch. It irked Garcia. “I want you to deliver a message to the fledgling you so cruelly stole her future from.”

“What do you have to say to Charlie?” 

Garcia raised a hand and descended down the stairs. “First, I want you to tell your companion of your true loyalties. You owe her that much, if you want to use her as a shield.”

“She’s no shield,” said Monroe. He tensed as Garcia approached. One on one, he might be able to take him. “She’s a witness.”

“Tell her,” insisted Garcia. He raised his chin a little and a cruel smile played his lips.

_ He knew _ . Monroe realised. It wasn’t a guess or even a paranoid assertion, as Rubio had thought. Somehow, he had figured out that Monroe owed Pieterzoon a life boon. It would be documented, discreetly, in channels and ledgers five thousand miles away. How had he known?

“My loyalties are as they always have been,” he said calmly. “To those in my charge, who are in most need of my guidance or protection. I have no loyalties to sect or leader. I am autarkis.”

“Liar,” said Garcia. He savoured the word. “You collaborate with Camarilla officials and claim independence in the land of the free—”

“I knew that,” said Zari.

“Zari,” warned Monroe.

She stepped forward. “Bartholomew Vaughn’s herald came to us, as she promised she would go to each Ventrue. Want to sweep your house? Go ask Fortier. He has a whole barony to turn over if he gets antsy.”

Garcia looked at her with great disappointment. Before he could get in a word, Monroe pressed Zari behind him again.

“True, the herald did come,” he said, “but how was I supposed to know you weren’t aware Vaughn was looking to claim praxis? LA’s your city, after all.”

Garcia didn’t even correct him.

Monroe remembered suddenly what Rubio — and others, he realised with a jolt — had scathingly called Garcia. The Anarch Prince. 

This had been a bad idea. They were in more danger than Monroe had realised. He had counted on meeting a pissed off Anarch baron in his domain. Anarchs had a degree of scruples. They bound their identities into them. Freedom fighters, champions of free will and choice, rulers chosen by the people. Independence. Liberty. Equality.

Garcia had exercised the blood bond, accepted MacNeil’s domain as his successor, broken the Masquerade to the FBI, kidnapped a child, and sired a preteen. Everything pointed not to a leader afraid of being unable to protect his people as Rubio had suggested, but a power-hungry vampire who would do whatever he needed to in order to achieve his goals.

Monroe had grossly underestimated him. He had all the dots and had failed to connect them. 

Different tactic.

Monroe let his mask fall and showed Garcia fear. The Anarch Prince preened, absorbing it like a sponge.

“Come with me,” he said.

Hawthorne was useless this deep inside the house.

Monroe kept a hand on Zari as they followed Garcia past the foyer, through the hall, and into the basement. Five densely muscled kindred guards stood as they approached. As Harper had said, cages lined the walls. Thick metal bars. Monroe cast his sight through Auspex and saw the lingering blood magic. Each one, a powerful ward against kindred. Not Orsay, surely. She would charge an arm and a leg for even one, let alone — Monroe counted them with growing horror — ten.

Most weren’t full, but some were. Harper had been right. Tara, red hair, matted, her frame crouched against the back wall like a feral. Tara Keanry, the former Baron of San Diego, sat in the one nearest. Rumour had it, she had wanted to turn San Diego back to the Tower. Then, she vanished. Political prisoners.

What a message. An empty cage waited for him. Monroe stayed at the bottom of the stairs, on edge to sprint back upstairs. He would never outrun a Brujah, but he wouldn’t be taken captive.

Zari took his arm. Her nails pierced through his jacket and dug into his skin. He followed her eye. The back cage held a small girl who must’ve been Bella. Charlie had showed them dozens of photos. A tiny bird of a girl, skinny legs and arms, with the same frizzy dark curls her sister had. She had been here too long, Monroe realised. He couldn’t take away her memories without destroying her mind.

Garcia pointed. “This is your message,” he said. He took a key from his pocket, opened the cage, and pulled the girl up by the arm. Bella squirmed, whimpering. When she saw fangs, she screamed. He bit her. She fell limp like a rag as fangs sunk in.

A place lingering between Monroe and the Beast snarled in envy. Orphan blood. Children didn’t have much, he knew from scarring experience, but damn, nothing compared.

Garcia dropped the girl suddenly. She cried, not loud and noisy as though to communicate her fear to a grown-up who would help, but because she couldn’t stop. No one spoke. No one moved to help her. They stood, staring at each other, listening to the bleeding human child cry.

With every passing second, he felt it. The message. It rang loud and clear.

Monroe knew what he should do, what was right to do, what he owed Charlie to do. He should’ve fought off Garcia’s men, protected Bella, and delivered her safely home. But he hesitated. He hesitated because he faced Garcia, the universally followed and lawful ruler of the land. Garcia was faster, stronger. He had the numbers, he had the advantage, and he had the social clout, resources, and lack of morals to make Monroe’s life a living hell if he so much dared challenge him. 

Monroe hesitated because he felt the weight of the Danse Macabre fall onto his shoulders. He knew the steps to the Danse. He knew how to destroy Garcia. It was only a matter of who destroyed who first. And he had lost. His weakness and impotence curdled his resolve.

Monroe was powerless to stop him. All he could do was surrender, cut his losses, and tell Charlie that Bella had been lost. Things could always get worse.

An unthinking emotion and reflex drove the words the left his mouth. “Of course, Your Highness, I will deliver the message.”

It was not the address of a baron, who often had no address, or Garcia, who once balked and laughed at those who called him “sir”. It was the address of a prince.

Garcia didn’t correct him, though. He only smiled.

The cruelest part of the Danse was the curse of immortality. Monroe had centuries to plot a way to make Garcia pay for that smile, for making him stand there and listen to the human child sob.

“One more, perhaps,” said Garcia. “Just, so we understand where we all stand. Even you, woman.”

He slammed the cage on Bella and moved to the next one. A Black woman sat in it, a woman who bore such striking resemblance to Zari that Monroe did a doubletake. At once, he understood why Zari gripped him so.

“No, please,” the woman begged with a tremor in her voice. “Please. Don’t — Not—”

Garcia pulled her up by her hair and she shrieked. He sunk his fangs into her and drank, long and deep. Deeper. Deeper.

Zari staggered. Monroe grabbed her hand. Not strong enough to restrain her, but it still stopped her mid-step. He leaned over and whispered, “He  _ will _ kill you and her.”

She looked up at him. There was no swaggering confidence, only pain in her wide eyes. “Do something,” she pled.

_ I will. _ But the words stuck in his throat. 

Garcia ripped his fangs from the throat of Zari’s sister — daughter? — and then did something that forced Monroe to physically restrain Zari. Things could always get worse. She scrambled against his strength. Her arms and legs windmilled against him, battering him, breaking bones. She screamed and hissed. The sound ripped her throat raw.

Garcia bit his wrist and dripped his blood down the throat of the dead woman. Seconds later, her eyes shot open. She snarled, lips searching for more. Garcia threw her back into the cage and slammed the door. The new fledgling snarled in a human scream, starving for blood, for her sire, less human than Beast. She threw herself senselessly against the bars.

“I get the message,” shouted Monroe. “I get it! Let the fledgling go.”

Zari’s nails raked against his chest. Her sounds and those of the fledgling were eerily similar.

Garcia smiled in the chaos and drank it in. Blood stained his lips, his fangs. “She’s not any citizen of the Free State. She’s just a casualty of the revolution.”

Monroe knew he had to leave. Fast. Before Garcia wanted to amend that message with a decapitation — this time, on Bella. He wrestled Zari back up the stairs. He was stronger, taller. Every forcible step hurt more than the last. 

Garcia had made a deep, deep miscalculation, though. He had thought this would destroy him, that Monroe would meekly accept his failures and accept his place in a new hierarchy of Los Angeles under the Anarch Prince.

He was wrong. Monroe had years, decades,  _ centuries _ to take his vengeance. Garcia did not understand what he had began. This bloodbath would never end. There was no forgiveness. Only vengeance, an eye for an eye. And on, and on, the Danse would play. Perhaps the next victims would be Garcia’s childer. Then, maybe Charlie, or Rubio. 

As much as he wanted, Monroe could never make Garcia suffer. He needed to kill him, to end this.

As they entered the night air, Zari began to calm. Sobs marred her snarls and the frenzy passed. He could say nothing but hold her on the front step as she slowly found herself.

“We need to get back to Blue,” he said.

“I — I can’t leave her. I did once.”

“Your daughter is beautiful,” he said hopelessly. He stroked her hair. “He won’t kill her. We will get her back and you will be together, forever. You need never leave her again.”

Somehow, Zari found the strength to stand and wipe the blood tears from her eyes. He led them back to the car. He felt as lost as she looked. He operated on auto-pilot, texting Hawthorne the highlights, driving back through the empty streets. Hawthorne’s car followed them and he realised how slow he drove. Zari internalized her pain and gazed out the window, a hollow shell.

The shell turned into a bomb. Monroe felt it tick down.

“I know you’re pissed,” he started, but he never got to finish.

“Stop the car.”

“Zari—”

“Stop this car. Right now.”

Monroe pulled over and prepared what was left of his ego. Zari slammed the door. “Do you need to hit me?” he asked. He spread his arms. “Please. Shoot me, if it makes you feel better.”

She stalked around the front of the car and hit the hood. The metal dented inward.

“You  _ promised _ me that if I joined you, I would be safe,” she shouted, her voice raw. “You told me your promises were always good.”

“They are,” he insisted.

“Charlie’s lost Bella. I’ve lost Aisha. Who else do we lose before we have to admit that you’re full of shit?” He had never seen her so worked up. Like a live wire, frayed, and throwing sparks. “Are you working with the Camarilla? Is Garcia right?”

“Zari,” he shouted back, “I cannot help anyone when I don’t know what’s going on. I respect your need for secrets. But don’t you  _ dare _ get upset with me for not protecting people I didn’t know exist.”

“You should be—”

Monroe would never learn what he should be. He had stopped on some nondescript street in West Hollywood. Hawthorne had stopped right behind him. The streets were deserted. 

Tires squealed behind them and then, the never-ending sound of bullets. The sprays  _ plinked _ across metal and threw him against the car. The driver and shooter cackled as the car screeched away. It was over in moments.

Drive by. Couldn’t be human. Too convenient. Message. Monroe dragged himself back to his feet. Bullets grated against the bones they had struck. Not even hollowpoint, which would fragment and tear undead flesh. They were just… bullets.

“Zari, you alright?” he called.

She rolled over with a groan. “Fine. Perfect end to a fantastic night.”

What the hell kind of message was this, though?

Any kindred would survive a drive by. Bullets, especially this caliber, were nothing more than an annoyance. Anarchs up at Greystone shot each other up every night with worse hardware.

Drive by. The way that Hawthorne had landed Valeria in critical condition in the hospital.

“No,” breathed Monroe. 

His eyes drifted to the SUV that had parked behind him. He hadn’t heard it. Hawthorne had stepped from the car as he and Zari shouted at each other. He could smell her blood. Too much. Far, far too much. With the blacks, it was hard to see the wounds, but she lay in a deep dark pool.

Monroe picked her up. Blood dripped through his fingers. She was conscious enough to flinch at the pain and moan softly. Her heartbeat was weak.

“Hey,” he said. “Come on.”

He shook her. Her head lolled to the side, limp. Her eyes were half-closed, unseeing. He couldn’t understand what he was seeing either. Her clothes were tattered and torn. Gore clung to the street.

“No. No.”

Her weak heart stopped.

“ _ No _ .”

He refused to believe it. 

“No.”

That was it. Like that. She was dead. No monumental last words. No goodbye. No deathbed request. He tried to remember the last thing they had talked about. French fries. She had been hungry. Such a useless forgettable memory.

She continued to breathe, but desperately shallow. In the next moments, the rest of her brain would shut off and all the other signs of death would come for her. In perhaps another minute, the Final Death took hold. In kindred, it was instant. Ghouls had to finish dying as mortals, first. After a quarter of a millennium, she would crumple. Age and wither into the old woman she had never had the chance to be, her flesh rotting and softening through the bones, her skeleton growing brittle and thin, before becoming nothing but dust and ash.

The only right thing to do would be to respect her wishes and let her die.

He could see it. Life beyond Hawthorne. He would struggle on without a daytime aide, eventually ghouling another and bringing them into the night. Dawson and his security thought he was merely eccentric and rich. God forbid, if he didn’t have the muster to ghoul himself, he might hire someone like Ashley to procure him one. They would be a summer ghoul. Young. Untrained. Ignorant. Worshipful. They would adore him, like a summer romance. Not a companion. Not a confidante. He would forever be the monster who stole them from mortal life and enslaved them to his blood.

Audrey Hawthorne would leave no mark on the world. None to mourn the passing of such a remarkable woman.

“No.”

Tonight was not the night. After facing such failure, he could not lose her as well. The only person who had mattered to him, personally. His friend.

How had Garcia learned it? He must’ve. He had to know that Hawthorne wished to live and die a ghoul. He had to know Monroe cared for his ghoul. Only Rubio knew. Rubio, who recognised Hawthorne as a sister to their same blood. Such a small thing, he must’ve thought it inconsequential. 

Monroe lifted Hawthorne into the backseat of the SUV she had driven. Her blood was on his hands. She had stopped breathing and begun to pale unnaturally.

“I am so sorry, Audrey,” he whispered against her cooling forehead. He brought his wrist to his fangs and pressed the blood to her lips.


	18. Never & Always

Blue Moon had been many things over the last month. Even though it had first been a strange and frightening vampire den, Charlie had taken to it as her salvation. It became home, in a twisted way as she struggled with her lack of humanity. A prison. And now, a mortuary. A damned funeral home. It felt too much like when her mother had died. Everyone talked in whispers and the air choked with grief and misery. It was infectious. Sorrow came like a tidal wave, crashing down unlike anything she had felt before. It ate and ate and ate at her until there was nothing left to eat. 

Charlie didn’t want to grieve. She wanted to be mad.

Charlie shook with rage. She had knocked several holes in the basement walls already and searched for something else to take her anger out on. Zari had returned with horror stories of Greystone. Cages and death and bullets. That had been two days ago. No one had seen Monroe or Hawthorne since.

“Fuck this,” said Charlie for the tenth time that night. “Jesse, I’ll go with you.”

The Lasombra played with shadows for the cats, who chased the swirling tendrils. She grinned and stood. “Let’s go.”

Zari, also for the tenth time that night, sighed and called after them as they waited for the elevator. “You’re gonna die out there. What good will that do Bella and Aisha?”

Charlie ground her fangs against her front teeth. She hadn’t managed to pull them in for the last two nights. Rather than continuing their pre-scripted argument, Charlie snapped back, “How the fuck are you so calm right now? That fucking monster just ate and turned your daughter and you’re here  _ watering plants _ .”

Zari didn’t even look up from the pot. She watered it with half vampire blood, half water. The result was a somewhat sentient twirling mass of black, diseased-looking vines with thorns that sought out warm skin.

“I’m through being mad,” she said. “You get mad and then you use that, you don’t let it use you.”

“What do you want to do?” asked Jack. He hadn’t said so many words since they had come back. He felt guilty, Charlie knew. He felt he should’ve been there, as if he could’ve done anything.

Zari’s voice trembled slightly. “Tonight, Bella will still be captured, Aisha will still be turned, but if we want to have roses come spring, I’ll need to prune them.”

Charlie turned to Jack, desperate. “Monroe’s up there, absorbing his message. Zari’s gardening. What are you gonna do?”

He shrugged. He looked more defeated than Zari, who at least appeared calm. “We can’t just, like, rush in there.”

“You got a mage boyfriend, why don’t you call him up?” shot Charlie.

The dark look Jack gave her filled her with shame.

Jesse turned to her. “What? Mages, now?”

“I’m sorry,” said Charlie exasperated.

“This isn’t his fight,” said Jack. “He’s staying out of it.”

“He  _ wanted _ to help.”

“He wants to make deals with infernal creatures for more power.”

“I’m thinking we count as infernal creatures.”

“Do you still not have any idea how dangerous we are to humans? Especially since you’re so worried about Garcia snapping Bella like a wishbone?”

Charlie snarled, but Jack didn’t even apologize. He glared at Jesse.

“And don’t you even think about going after him, hunter,” said Jack.

She raised her hands in mock surrender. “Oh, please, no.  _ Why _ would I want to kill a power hungry mage who wants to make deals with infernal creatures?”

“You want a plan,” shot Charlie. “Here’s one. Hawthorne said Garcia had Embraced a new childe and thinks of them as his family. Ransom.”

Jack cocked his head. “You want to ransom a kid?”

“Garcia started it,” said Charlie desperately. “He kidnapped a girl that didn’t know anything, that wasn’t a vampire, that—”

The elevator behind them opened. Monroe. His shirt was rumpled, as though he slept in it. He carried the same quiet, sad mood the rest of them had. They all stared at him.

“I came here to apologize,” he said. “I take responsibility for what happened with Bella and Aisha—”

“Don’t,” said Zari. The word sounded like a warning. “You don’t have to.”

“I do. You all are my responsibility—”

“You were right before,” said Zari, shaking her head. “You can’t protect people you don’t know exist.”

“You know what I love about you?” asked Monroe with a stilted smile.

“That I’m giving you an out you don’t deserve?” asked Zari sweetly.

“How you let me finish my sentences.” Monroe turned back to Charlie. “I know you still blame me. You’re right to. I failed and I will make things right.”

“How?” she demanded.

“Let me take care of this,” he said, but there was none of his usual smoothness or confidence. Instead of upsetting her, though, it only made her angry. 

She was right. The Cobweb was right. No one could help her but her.

“Enough of this ‘vampires keep secrets’ bullshit,” she said. “Tell me what you’re going to do to get my sister back. How can I help?”

“You can help by staying here,” he said. “This is something that I need to do.”

“What?” asked Zari.

He answered her. “Politics. As of right now, no one but Garcia’s immediate circle know about the attacks on us. If we storm in there, we will be against the entirety of the Barony of Angels  _ and _ East LA. I’m going to begin to even the odds.”

“How long?” asked Charlie. “How long until my sister is safe?”

Monroe didn’t even bother to hide his uncertainty. “If you trust me—”

“Why would I?” she spat in his face. She grabbed the front of his shirt. He let her. “Why would I after everything that’s happened? If you hadn’t given Garcia shit about me, just let me go on your own—”

“You would’ve been dead,” he said. “There—”

“I had a sire. Even if Rhys wouldn’t have, the Professor offered… me… a place.” Breath whistled through Charlie’s teeth as something occurred to her. Her bones turned to lead, then, she realised she still held Monroe. And she wasn’t finished yet. “You act like you had a choice between throwing me on a fire and taking me for yourself, but what about what  _ I _ wanted? Don’t I get a choice in my life?”

“You can always leave,” he said. His eyes melted. “Always, but your best chance, right now, of seeing Bella again is to let me set this right. Just, trust me, one more time.”

“Why?” She drew the word out, every extra syllable making him wince. “Clearly no one else trusts you — Jack didn’t tell you about the theatre, Zari didn’t tell you about her family.”

“Charlie, that’s enough,” said Zari.

“Answer me,” Charlie demanded.

Monroe stared down at her impassively. “Who you do or do not trust is your own business. You’ve lied to me, broken the Masquerade with some inconsequential human boy, and almost gotten me killed. I trust you.”

Zari reached to pry Charlie’s fingers off of Monroe. 

Charlie redoubled her grip. She needed to get a reaction out of him.

“Where’s Hawthorne?”

She didn’t get the reaction she wanted. She wanted him to pin her against the wall, to hit her, snarl, hiss, threaten her, something to let her make the second move. 

Something in his eyes made Charlie feel guilty for trying to hurt him with it. 

“She’s upstairs,” he said softly, and that was the end of that. She let him go and, as he composed himself and returned to that infuriating calm, she found her anger again.

“Don’t you think that was his point?” asked Zari. “All this bullshit. Garcia’s only after us because of him. He wants you to think Monroe’s incapable, to lose faith.”

Charlie snorted. “You telling me you still have faith?”

“No, but I’m not stupid enough to believe in never,” she said firmly. “He fucked up, bad. We all do sometimes. Infernal creatures tend to. I don’t know if he’ll fix this, but he deserves a night to try, at least.”

Monroe cleared his throat. “At least a few nights. Maybe a week.”

“Three,” Zari gave. It was three more than Charlie wanted. “After three nights, we’re going to do this our own way.”

“Thank you,” he said sincerely. “I’ll do my best.” He reached to Zari, as though to say something else, and thought better of it.

“I know you will,” she said. “Bring my girl home, Matt.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t been around the last few days,” he said, though it sounded like he spoke only to Zari. “Maybe I should’ve been. Maybe I should’ve come up with a bunch of pretty sounding bullshit to make you feel better.”

“That’s not who you are and that’s not why I’m here,” said Zari. “You shut up and get shit done.”

“I can make a speech, if you want.” The ghost of a smile crossed his lips. It looked so worn Charlie almost felt bad for him. Almost.

Zari pushed him gently. “Go.”

Monroe went. The elevator took him away.

“In three days, Garcia could kill them,” said Charlie darkly. “We need to start coming up with another plan.”

“A plan that takes three days is better than a plan you made up on the drive over,” said Zari. “Besides, without Hawthorne, we’ll need to start from scratch.”

Charlie wondered if Zari had given Monroe three days only to force Charlie to plan. Zari pulled her laptop onto her lap and, reluctantly, Jesse and Charlie sat. After a minute, Jack joined them.

Zari took a deep breath. “Let’s start again with what we know about Greystone.”

  
  


The elevator returned Monroe to, if he had a melodramatic bone in his body, he would term his own living hell. But, he didn’t, and so it was merely his office. Along the hall, there was her door. Hawthorne had promptly come home and confined herself to the room. She must’ve been starving. A new Ventrue, she didn’t even know her feeding type. Pity, honour, and his duty as a sire demanded he barge in and feed the poor childe, instruct her. Respect kept him out.

Monroe changed his appearance into something more Anarch-friendly. He swapped his designer jeans for cheap ones from Wal-Mart and undid the buttons on his shirt. After a consideration, he pushed the sleeves up and ruffled his hair. He looked as ragged as he felt.

He had left his door open, in hope. Hope was dangerous.

He had no room for hope.

Reluctantly, Monroe knocked, again. After his third knock, a harsh, “Go away,” greeted him.

“I’m going to Greystone tonight,” he said heavily. “There’s a Rant. I’m going to try and sway some of them away from Garcia.”

She shifted inside. Footsteps. The door opened. Audrey Hawthorne. He didn’t bother to control his expression. The Embrace could only heal so much. Broken bones, ruptured organs. Flesh and bones merely needed to be knit back together. Kindred didn’t need working organs. Nerves were more complex. Maybe it was the fall. Maybe she cracked her head on the cement, or a bullet grazed her head. She hadn’t been able to drive back. Her vision fluctuated, from nothingness, to light perception, to merely blurry — effectively blind. He felt like he had cursed her. She agreed.

He had pictured her Embrace a thousand ways. None of them had ever gone like this.

“If you turn up on Greystone, Garcia will kill you,” she said listlessly.

Monroe shrugged. “Possibly. If I stay here and continue to be the dejected failure Garcia sought to turn me into, we will all be safe. But Bella will certainly meet a grisly end. Aisha might be turned loose in some time, she might not be.” Monroe pressed a piece of paper into Hawthorne’s hand.

She smirked. “Nice work, genius. Can’t read.”

“Give it to a taxi,” he said. “If you want. It’s Pieterzoon’s address, in the Glen. I might not come back. He likes me. He’ll take you on, if you want.”

She crumbled the paper in a fist, but she didn’t throw it away. “I can’t believe you,” she whispered. After two days of silence, the pain in her voice was unbearable. “You  _ knew _ how I felt about this and you did it anyway. I have all of eternity to hate you.” She nodded, her lip stiffening. “So, I will spend all of eternity hating you. I won’t Danse. I won’t take revenge. I will forget about you. I’m through. I’m leaving.” She took a step towards him. He wondered if she saw him better, if at all. “Whatever twisted reason — obsession, possession, greed — forced you to do this to me, know it was for nothing. You will never see me again.”

Monroe nodded, accepting the curse. It was a curse, but it was one worth baring. Maybe.

“I won’t even try to defend myself,” he said. “I did it for selfish reasons, but not the ones you think.”

“Enlighten me.”

“You are my friend,” he said. The sentiment felt so stupid, so unnatural. What sort of undead predator had  _ friends _ ? Allies, followers, business partners, servants — but  _ friends _ ? But why did the word hurt so much?

“I was a slave,” said Hawthorne. Two centuries of pain poured out of her. She clung to the doorframe to hold herself up. “I know you’ve felt the bond. What else would you call it? Every ghoul is a slave. Your blood became a drug, an addiction, your praise, your presence. If I left, I would die in a matter of weeks. I meant  _ nothing _ to you. I was a tool. A good one. I knew my place in this world, how to play my part, how to survive. But I was a tool. No one —  _ no one _ ever appreciated me, respected me, truly knew me. Don’t you dare contradict me, you sanctimonious piece of shit. You think because you didn’t actually beat me that you were better than your sire. You are wrong.”

Monroe wondered how much of it was rage and how much of it was true, at least to her. Every word killed him, a death by a thousand cuts. He took it in silence.

A stupid impulse called him to take her in his arms again. To stroke her hair and tell her he was sorry, to have his sins absolved, to help her. He couldn’t apologize for something he didn’t regret. It would disrespect them both. The sentimentality called not to any degree of love, which was alien to kindred, but to a silent debt owed by their years of companionship — of friendship.

“You can walk out that door and slam it,” he said hollowly, “but I won’t lock it. You will always be my childe, my blood. You will always have a place with me.”

It killed him to offer the door. Losing Hawthorne would be like losing his right hand. So long had they been together, the loss would be physical, a constant daily hole in his life. But he couldn’t let it show. She was his childe now, his charge for nearly a century and now the rest of eternity. It wasn’t his place to influence her decision. It was his place to allow her to make it.

Hawthorne’s face twisted into nothing less than hatred. “I’m never coming back.”

“Never is a long time, Miss Hawthorne.”

“So is always, Mr Monroe.”

She slammed the door.


	19. The Red Question

Greystone was packed. Rant night. Kindred all across the city poured into the estate to participate in the Rants. Any kindred could get up on a soapbox — a garden wall, a stack of milkcrates, standing on each other’s shoulders — and shout their opinions. Garcia and other old Brujah politicos were infamous for their manifestos. Those the crowd liked would continue to cheers. Those the audience didn’t would be booed away. It was a Brujah tradition, absorbed by Anarch culture, and the chaos antithetical to everything Ventrue.

Monroe wondered if he might be the first of his clan to partake of the festivities. 

As ever, the fire barrels were lit. The bold and brave catapulted over them to howls of glee. Music and laughter blasted. An early game of football played in the twilight. But, at the edges, the mood was brittle in hushed whispers, flickering eyes and lips fearful they were overheard by secret police. Garcia had Embraced again, another young girl, too young to turn a blind eye to — then again, he  _ was _ the baron — but, no, that’s how the Cam did things — who the fuck turns a kid?

Monroe had come alone. Whispers and eyes brazenly followed him, no longer content to give him the appearance of decency. He recognised faces. Not many. Those who were willing to deal with him didn’t run in standard Anarch circles. There, one of Ashley’s childer. Here, the Professor’s Math Class. He caught sight of the one person he wanted to see.

“Cortez,” he called.

Copper raised his head from his circle of thinblood friends. Few thickbloods, too. Most of them had cups of snake beer, but it was early night. Sober enough. Monroe beckoned him.

“What’s up, dude?” asked Copper. He was either oblivious to gossip or impervious to it. Likely drunk.

Monroe led him some paces down to give the appearance of privacy. “I’m gonna do a Rant,” he said. “Can I get some backup?”

Copper slapped his chest. “Dude. You know it. That hookup your girl found it is legit, man.”

Monroe forced a smile. “Hawthorne’s the best. Anything else, just say the word. I want you guys to settle into Silver Lake.”

“Oh, and that’s why…” 

Copper at least had the sobriety to not announce the trade as his dug through pockets and produced a small ziplock baggie of red pills. A week ago, when Monroe had sat down with Copper and discussed the formulae Ashley had given them, nothing seemed remotely useful. More like cheap party tricks that Tremere would use to impress at elysium, or a secret advantage in a physical scuffle. Flight, telekinesis, mimicking base Disciplines. And then Copper had brought up something they called magnets.

Monroe swallowed two of them at once and pocketed the rest. “Thanks. This means a lot.”

Copper beamed. “I’m just happy I get to cook again. Others aren’t too jazzed but they got no idea, bro.”

As the pills took effect, more eyes found him and with slightly less suspicion. Untraceable, unlike Presence, but should give a slight edge to his words. Hopefully, an edge was all he needed.

“Remember, I’ll be up soon,” he said.

“Can do.” Copper wandered back to his friends.

Monroe had wished for Rubio, or someone else. He loathed solitude. Always, at the very least, he had had Hawthorne to bounce ideas off of and accompany him. He hadn’t counted on Garcia being so ruthless, so… Camarilla. Had he known, he wouldn’t have been so cavalier about letting Rubio go neutral. He would’ve cajoled, maybe even threatened him to help. If anything would have avoided this mess.

A hundred little things, he was sure. He counted them but, like the stars above, they were innumerable.

Had he thrown himself into Ashley’s alliance to overthrow Westside.

Had he left the Barony of Angels once MacNeil left.

Had he never challenged Garcia’s authority over Charlie.

Had he thrown out Barty’s Camarilla envoy.

Had he burned Hardestadt in effigy every night with the Anarchs.

Had he fought to be accepted as an Anarch, rather than content himself with the outsider status he had worn so proudly for so long.

Had he strongarmed his coterie into telling him their secrets, to better protect their interests. Better still, had he become trustworthy enough in their eyes to tell him.

A handful of nut cases had begun their Rants early. Kindred were too sober. Rants needed energy like a mosh pit, a barely controlled mob.

Monroe took a cup of beer to steady his nerves and listened to the piss-poor Anarch preachers. He prowled the gardens, searching for a good soapbox. He second-guessed every movement. Twenty years of Ventrue agoge had forced him to adopt the stiff, emotionless, professional presentation of his clan, another century years made it habit. Now, to be clumsy, to sit with slouched shoulders, arms over his knees, took concerted effort.

He did not come here tonight as Ventrue.

He couldn’t afford another failure. The coterie wouldn’t broker it. He couldn’t accept it.

Monroe half expected to return to an empty Blue Moon. Hawthorne, almost certainly, would leave. Even newly blind, she would find a way. Charlie seemed half ready to run off with Harper on a mad vengeance spree. Zari might stay, for a while, or she could gamble and turn herself to Garcia in hopes of reuniting with her daughter. Jack had lost his spunk. Monroe didn’t know if he could find it again, at least not with the coterie.

He  _ did _ expect to return to an empty Blue Moon. Hope and half measures would kill him. If he expected nothing, he could have a lovely surprise. Elsewise, he would march himself to Pieterzoon and plead for a purpose in life. LA would be dead to him. He buried Hawthorne and his coterie. They were free to make their own decisions. The door was open. They were not his prisoners. They were not his friends. They were his honour. And, as his honour, he had to answer them. He owed them that.

The number of Ranters ebbed and flowed. A little actual talent appeared on occasion. The impassioned speeches moved some of the early drunks, rising them into an infectious controlled chaos. When the Ranters began to ebb again, Monroe jumped up on a garden wall. He knew the general gist of what he would say, but he had no idea to the actual words until they fell from his mouth.

He stood no more than five feet off the ground, but it already felt too high. He walked along the wall’s edge, taking in the listeners that were up for grabs. They all wanted a reason to cheer, to be proud, to be angry, to feel something. A few elbows jabbed. People wondered what on God’s green earth a  _ Ventrue _ had to say at a Rant.

Monroe opened his mouth.

“The question lingers,” he started loudly, “on your lips, on mine, and on the lips of every one of us who has tasted the Blood. That question, red with the blood of a thousand-thousand of your brothers and sisters, lies at the heart of a war that has raged for ages across the face of the globe.”

Heads turned to him from nearby as Ranters ended their spiel. 

“ _ Why do you obey?” _ asked Monroe. He shouted the question. He dug into the anger he had let brew for the last two days. Anarchs needed passion. They needed anger. Righteous. They needed to hear their own values said back to them, dressed up, prettier.

Cortez realised that Monroe was up and he found the thinbloods in front of him in moments. 

“California is the Free State,” he said. “Freedom to live as the creatures we are. Freedom to live in peace, unburdened by clan, Generation, or origins. Freedom of opportunity. Freedom to choose the leaders we follow. Freedom to rise or fall by our own merit.”

The thinbloods nodded to each other. The Ranter to his immediate left jumped down, finished, and his roiled up crowd folded among those still going. 

“Freedom to question.” Monroe dared not look to make a count of them. He couldn’t lose momentum.

“ _ Why do you obey? _ ”

Cortez seemed surprised. Murmurs of approval. He could hear it in whispers, the question repeated and passed around like snake beer for everyone to take a sip from. This wasn’t Ventrue. This wasn’t controversial. It was exactly what everyone else was saying.

But Monroe was better. He had counted on it. He had learned the art of oratory at the feet of undead sociopaths. Fowler had beat into him how to work a crowd, manipulate people to get them to think and want as he desired. He had worked damn hard to turn Monroe into himself, his perfect tool.

Whatever Hawthorne had said, he had failed.

Monroe earned that savage victory. It gave him great pleasure to use the Ventrue’s tools against the Anarch Prince in a spitting rage. One hundred thirty years of mistreatment spat out of his mouth. A slave and catspaw to his clan and Camarilla. Outcast by Hobson’s choice. Innocent victim of the Danse. 

Monroe paced the garden wall around his growing crowd. As they became more animated, it fed into him, which fed into them. Harmony. The words came even easier now, flowing like water, like music. 

“Those humans you love — mortal family, friends, lovers, ghouls, allies — what happens when some powerful baron decides it’s snacktime? When nothing is safe and there is no authority to help to you, where do you go? Freedom to suffer. Freedom to lose everything that makes our nights worth living.”

He stopped in the middle and punctuated every word. This time, some joined him. Some tentatively, some enthusiastically. Next time, there would be more. His momentum spiraled louder, bigger.

“ _ Why do you obey? _

“The Anarchs have forgotten. This is the first Generation of kindred to be sired into the State. You think you don’t know what oppression feels like. You are wrong. It is fear. It is shame. It is a boot on your neck and a gun in the night. It is blood and circuses to make you forget your pains. It is being scared of being overheard in private conversations. 

“We ran from the elders of the Tower who tortured us, pitted us against each other, made us fight their wars. The Free State was built for any who wanted a refuge from it. And now, we torture each other. Without their help, we divide ourselves. We say we want to live in peace but all we build is war.”

Monroe paused. When he noted the expectation, the pregnant held breath of his crowd, he gave them another iteration of his slogan to chant. 

He had chosen this wall for a very specific reason. From his stance, he could see up the sloped lawns to Greystone manor. Up at the top, Garcia leaned over a wall and watched him with a cold eye. He heard every word. 

Good.

He was the Anarch Prince, Monroe’s Danse partner. He was Fowler. Delacroix. Vitel. Garlotte. Every Camarilla sociopath who he had refused to be their tool, who refused in turn to let him live in peace. If he wanted peace, he needed to take it by war.

Monroe raised his voice again.

“We cower before fearsome warlords, gangsters, and mobsters. We fall into their racket and pray their eyes don’t find us. We fear in the night some gang won’t respect our unlives — with nowhere to go if they attack.”

In his own crowd, he recognised some of Garcia’s hangers-on, those wannabe El Hermandad, and even one or two of his younger members. Conflict clear on their face, they still didn’t leave. They listened. All Monroe needed was for them to listen. Rants were a place not of Dominate and Presence, but Anarchs failed to realise how little Ventrue truly relied on their Disciplines to become formidable.

“We have traded princes for kingpins,” he called. “Is  _ this _ what freedom is? Why do you obey that which does not obey you?

“ _ Why do you obey? _ ”

The resounding shouts to his call was deafening. They curled in the palm of his hand. The Beast recognised his victory, as momentary as it was, and purred with pride. They waited. Each and every one of them. Even Garcia’s. Most were on his side. He had made his points. They agreed, answering his call. Eager for more.

Monroe let some of his vitriol fade. He splayed his arms wide. Self-deprecating. Vulnerable.

“For anyone who knows me, I don’t come to Rants,” he said. “I don’t get up on a soapbox. I am autarkis. This is not my place. I am Ventrue.” The dreaded word caught a few off-guard, as if they had forgotten or chosen to. “My place is protecting my people. I can no longer do that alone.”

This was it. He didn’t need them to storm Greystone. He didn’t need to turn his crowd into an angry mob. It would be far too suspicious if he did. Any victory would be chalked up to a Rant gone wrong.

All he needed to do was to get them to question.

“To teach her her place,” said Monroe with disgust, “Salvador Garcia kidnapped a new lick’s baby sister — a seven-year-old human child — and used her as a blood doll for his perverse desires. He brutally Embraced and imprisoned the daughter of Zari, a Toreador who hasn’t spoken to her children since her Embrace thirty years ago. Garcia bonded the infamous hunter Ace of Spades with the chains of blood and sent her to kill me. He collaborated with the mortal FBI and let them behind the Masquerade in petty rivalry.”

Every crime he laid at Garcia’s feet changed the mood of his crowd. The first, people found, was easy enough to believe. It enraged them. Furious. Anarchs were young, beholden to common mortal sensibilities. Many knew Zari or knew of her zine. It made Jesse Harper and the FBI easier to swallow. 

At his manor, Garcia stood, stark stunned, by what Monroe had blatantly said. 

Danses were secret. 

“He believes he can get away with it,” Monroe shouted, “because together we hold our silence. We think we are alone in our sorrows and pains. He knows the power we have. He fears what we might do if we band together and ask each other with a single voice —

“ _ Why do you obey? _ ”

Garcia clearly didn’t like the sound of this. Monroe realised he was the only Ranter still speaking. The others had stopped and he had gathered most of the kindred on Greystone. They circled him, embroiled with the righteous passion everyone wanted from a Rant.

“The only anger I can justify is my own,” said Monroe honestly. “But if I have this story, I cannot be the only one. And now you bare witness. Not one of you can turn a blind eye any longer — not because of great acts he did for the Movement decades ago or pretty words he wrote — you know what he is capable of. You know the kind of man you call ‘baron’. The Anarch Prince.”

Monroe turned side-face on the wall and pointed a straight arm directly at the manor balcony, from which Garcia watched with an unreadable expression. Greystone was no longer an ironic statement among the self-ruled Anarchs. No one could doubt that, looking at Garcia, it was the proud estate of a powerful lord.

“ _ Why do you obey  _ **_him_ ** _? _ ”

The call had been taken up. There was no polite applause. The mob wove out of Monroe’s control. Brujah, so quick and easy to frenzy, casually destroyed Greystone’s lawns. Fake grass tore up in sheets and they scrabbled in dirt, snarling. Others punched the garden walls. Stone cracked and crumbled. Wrestling matches broke out. Several took to a bullet tag game, or maybe they just shot each other in frenzy.

Monroe jumped from the wall into the mass of people. For the first time in twenty years, he felt like he belonged in Los Angeles. Strangers patted him on the back or clapped his shoulder as he made his way past. Words of encouragement and even greeting found him. Some called him by name. He had earned this.

To add to the chaos, Monroe upturned a flaming barrel, earning howls and whoops. It had almost given his Beast a heart attack. Monroe hadn’t realised what he was doing until it had been done. Flames licked up the plastic grass, burning chemical smoke. The exhilaration and camaraderie, however temporarily, intoxicated him.

One Rant meant nothing in the grand scheme of Anarch politics. One Rant didn’t unmake a baron. It was meaningless. All the chaos was just letting off steam.

But it invited questions no one wanted answers to.


	20. Lextalionis

Charlie slipped away at dusk. She had found out she woke up first. The others were all still in the terribly still, half-dead comatose daysleep. The sky was lighter than she had seen in weeks. A hazy deep blue, rather than black and star-studded. She couldn’t waste any time.

She left alone. Not alone. She was never truly alone. The Cobweb dogged her, a spy in her brain, talking to other Malkavians, sharing her innermost thoughts and giving her theirs in turn. Who knew if it told the future? Who knew if it let her have secrets? She considered and reconsidered the Raufoss pistol she had stolen from Jesse. The hunter would forgive her. If not, she didn’t care.

It was the third night. Charlie wouldn’t wait anymore.

She had to do something. Something. Something. Anything.

And who could stop her? She didn’t exist. None of them did. What would anyone do? Call the cops? LAPD had no jurisdiction over the undead. They couldn’t help their problems. Bella was in their missing person database. They couldn’t storm Greystone. They were useless.

Would any judge her for  _ one _ time? Just once.

Let he who is without sin throw the first stone.

She was not human. She had no sister, no parents, no jobs, no friends. Charlie did not exist. Not anymore. She used to. Bella used to. She was good as gone.

The Cobweb had whispered one word to her, endlessly. When she had asked Google, it had translated it. An old Latin phrase. A concept.

Lextalionis. The law of vengeance, of retaliation, of an eye for an eye.

Charlie drove too fast. The familiar city blew past her. The route was one she knew well. She used to pick up Dustin and Meg. Meg slept in the car. She had barely passed the class. Only a year ago, but it was a lifetime. They had taken the same early morning history class. Dustin liked history. He was full of tidbits and weird little facts about Roman senators and culture. Like, about the Roman lottery, which sometimes included venomous snakes and death sentences. 

Charlie had won the universe’s lottery.

Her knuckles turned white on the steering wheel.

Anger was the only emotion that came easy. It was a cold, emotionless emotion, a state of being rather than a fire in her gut. Cold and featureless like the tile of a strange Wal-Mart restroom. Empty, familiar in only the basest way, but isolated. Empty. Her stomach didn’t clench, her pulse didn’t race, her chest didn’t constrict and squeeze the breath out of her in a desperate choke, her mind didn’t ache behind the eyes.

She was dead.

All she had was the Cobweb’s purring static. She felt blind, walking down a path laid out for her by forces with questionable intentions, but powerless to stop.

Not powerless. She could stop. She just didn’t want to.

Her mother was dead. Bella was gone. Charlie was dead.

The people who had done this had names, faces, addresses. Taking a gun to them could mean her death. What was dead could not die again.

The thinblood’s words haunted her.  _ Forgive him _ . She had. She had forgiven Monroe, what he needed for forgiveness. She could do that. 

She could not forgive him, though.

And she could never forgive Monroe for being right. It felt like a lifetime ago, that abandoned parking lot, bloodied gravel, the FBI hunters’ screams a close memory. He had killed one, but Charlie couldn’t summon her name. It didn’t matter. Not really.

_ You don’t have to become me, but you will change one night. _

Charlie pulled into UCLA and left her keys in the ignition. She held the gun blatantly at her side and felt the invisibility click over her in a flash. She was getting better at this.

Stronger.

Charlie found the building. Proud, old, Gothic structure. The halls were silent. Foreboding. Empty rooms and empty doors stared disapprovingly. She was not supposed to be here. The feeling slipped from the walls and into her soul. It was not guilt. It was magic. Power. Discipline. The Cobweb ratted on her.

Charlie found the Professor’s office. The light was on. The door’s frosted glass mirror gave nothing away. Charlie put her hand on the gun and gently opened the door. She shot before she saw. In the split second after firing, a sharp breath entered her chest. Not guilt. Not regret. It couldn’t be. She had none.

The bullet bit into the chair and smoldered. He wasn’t there.

“Charlie.”

He was behind her. Invisible. 

Charlie turned, the gun still in her hand. 

The Professor Colin Nelson. He leaned against the far wall. He looked so disappointed, parental. He wore the same shapeless sweater vest and slacks, arms open in welcome. Those arms had held her. Those lips had told her things would be okay. After those terrible early nights, at Greystone, meeting Ashley, the Society hunters. She believed it. When it had been his turn, Jack had believed it, and who knew how many other fledglings. 

It was a lie. All of it was a lie. Each and every one of them, no matter how they hid, was a monster.

He heard every intimate thought as though she had spoken it. Between them, the Cobweb shook.

The Professor shook his head. “Charlie, I understand why you’ve come. Your anger is a natural and good reaction to the things that have happened to you. It means you’re still human.”

Charlie raised the gun. She tried to feel the thud of her heart so badly that she imagined the ache in her chest. “I’m  _ dead _ . Your boy killed me.”

The Professor didn’t take notice of the gun. “Rhys made a mistake, like we all do eventually. He is still looking how to make amends.”

“I’m not here for him,” she said darkly. The gun felt heavy in her hands. “Garcia took Bella. I told  _ one _ person about her.”

“Charlie—”

“ _ One person _ ,” she shouted. She did not regret it. “She was an innocent child. And you turned her over to that monster.”

The Professor reached out but she waved the gun to keep his distance. “Salvador is not a monster,” he asserted. “He is a good man—”

“He’s keeping my baby sister in a cage! He fed on her!”

“Who told you that?” asked the Professor calmly, as though they were having a pleasant conversation in a lecture room and not at gunpoint.

“Monroe.” Her resolve flickered.

“Monroe is a monster,” said the Professor. Calm, measured tones. “He has worked tirelessly to destroy everything that we have built here. His selfishness would see him as baron already, if not for the brave work of Salvador and others in the Free State. Don’t you see? He’s manipulated you. He’s losing and desperate for allies. He has lied to you.”

Charlie’s gun lowered. She swallowed a breath wrong. Made herself choke. Her body felt saturated with weakness. It came from everywhere and nowhere, like a blanket, like her bones oozed it. It wasn’t real. 

“Charlie,” he said. Calm, measured tones. “We have all made mistakes. It’s not too late.”

Charlie avoided looking at the Professor directly. “We’re all monsters,” she said. “We all kill. We all feed. We’re all scared of the rest of us, that one night someone’s gonna step over the line. Do something we can’t forget.” She raised the gun again. “Telling Garcia isn’t something I’m forgetting.”

The Professor looked like he wanted to lie again. “Bella’s safe,” he said. “She’s being held in Greystone, but safe. She’s happy. She’s not being tortured. For Caine’s sake,  _ think  _ of what you’re suggesting.”

He believed it. Garcia played him like he played all of them.

Charlie debated leaving. The Professor was another victim of Garcia’s schemes. But he wasn’t. She couldn’t forget it, the person who had let Bella be stolen, the person who protected her sire. It was a lie, but easy to believe.

“Think of all that Salvador has done! For all of us,” he added. “The Camarilla call our clan crazy, bar us from holding domain or office, try to make us ‘normal’. He  _ saved _ us. He wouldn’t bleed a child.”

_ Lextalionis. _

Maybe it wasn’t a whisper. Maybe it wasn’t the Beast. Maybe it was just her own thoughts. Her own need, reflected back at her in a long-forgotten phrase from a history textbook. A response of the coldness and silence in her chest.

“Salvador wants what is best for the city,” he said. “He’s always had the city’s best interests at heart, before and after the Revolts. He doesn’t do things without a cause.”

“Who told you that?” she asked with a pitiful smile.

The Professor opened and shut his mouth. “I trust Salvador. I’ve known him for almost a century. He’s always been good to me, respected me, sent fledglings my way. I’ve guided dozens of lost childer over the decades. I promise you, I am not what you think I am. Let me help you.”

There was no fear in his eyes. Why would there be? Bullets didn’t harm vampires. That made it easier.

If she didn’t have second thoughts, why were there tears in her eyes?

She shot him.

The Professor stumbled back with a grunt. A little anger, but then, there it was.

And it was more horrible than Charlie ever could have imagined.

A spark struck when bullet’s incendiary cartridge exploded. It jumped to his skin, which lit up as though it was oil. Gasoline. Fire. Flames grew to incredible size and speed. Unnatural. He lit up like a Roman candle until the Professor was barely a silhouette in the orange. And, all the while, he screamed. The agony reached Charlie’s ears inside and out. The Cobweb, the Professor’s strand vibrated with a terrible force, as though pulled tight and let snap. And again.

The automatic sprinkler system caught scent of the noxious smoke. A blaring alarm sounded in the quiet. No one came to answer it.

It was too late. The thread of the Cobweb snipped, drifting away. The Professor, even doused with water, collapsed into a pile of ash and burned clothes.

Charlie thought she would feel better. Saving Bella would almost certainly mean her death. Maybe Jesse’s and Zari’s and Jack’s. And she didn’t even know if they could even save her. If Charlie had to die again, she couldn’t have let Bella’s go unanswered. Whatever happened, Charlie could live with this. She could be the Professor’s villain. 

Her heart didn’t clench with pain. Her stomach stayed immobile at the grisly remains. Her conscious said nothing. The Beast quieted, for the first time in weeks. Its will and hers were one.

Appeased, Charlie wiped the water and blood from her eyes and left the UCLA campus, to return to Blue Moon and finalize their hopeless assault of Greystone.

  
  


Monroe’s expectations had been exceeded. Blue Moon had not been empty when he returned after the Rant. Charlie, Zari, and Jesse Harper had remained in the basement. Jack hunted among the venue’s crowds. Dawson and his men had secured the venue absolutely, even as the kine wandered about, unaware. 

Upstairs, Hawthorne had made good on her promise and left. Even though his expectations had been exceeded, he found he still mourned.

He allowed himself a night of grief. No more. Last night, he had spent in Hawthorne’s bed. It smelled of her toiletries, of almond and cherry and her human scent that had been killed. He couldn’t remember breathing so regularly for so long. He filled his nose again and again. He would never see her again. He had a photo album at their home. He wondered if she had stopped by there first, or if she had left him with that at least.

She appeared to take only the essentials. Her wallet, a set of car keys, and a gun. Monroe had no doubt she would do great things as a kindred, as a Ventrue. She would establish herself, grow used to her lack of sight, master her newly expanded powers. Anyone would be lucky to have her in their employ. He noted, as well, that she had taken the note he had writ with Pieterzoon’s address. Perhaps he might see her again.

But grief had been segregated to the night before. This night was anew and the time for the second phase of his plan. Last night, the Anarchs had had time to mull over his words and his Rant, to pass it around, consider the allegations set at Garcia’s door. 

Tonight, Monroe would end the Danse. By one way or the other.

He felt like he aged another century as he stood, crossed Hawthorne’s room, and closed the door behind him. One night, perhaps in a decade or two, he would clean it out. Until then, however unwillingly, he needed to have hope. He had nothing else.

Monroe showered and dressed anew, as a scruffy Anarch. He scrubbed the browbeaten look from his eyes as he entered the elevator. Downstairs, it was silent. No film or television show played. Music drifted from above, but nothing that could possibly distract from the mournful mood. As though they too understood, Jack’s newfound pets slumbered in his lap. He stroked the dog, lost in thought. Though the moon had risen an hour before, Zari still lay on the couch. Only Harper and Charlie had any life. They stood in the corner, discussing something that stopped abruptly when they spotted him. Water dripped from Charlie’s every edge, as though she had taken a swim with her clothes on.

Questions for another time.

“Time to go,” he said shortly. “All of us need to be at Greystone tonight. Harper, you can come as well, if you must.”

“I’m not setting foot in a hundred miles of Garcia,” she spat. The air of defeat had infected even her, however, as the shadows didn’t deepen at her anger. Surely, she feared the blood bond controlling her in his presence. Even remaining here must’ve drained her willpower to resist.

“That’s alright. You’ll know when it happens.” He pointed to his heart. “Garcia’s death will feel like a stake in the heart, and then as though waking up from a dream.”

“You’re going to kill Garcia?” asked Charlie. Her eyes widened and she took a step forward.

She hadn’t entirely lost faith. She still hoped. It filled him with confidence.

“Someone will tonight,” he promised. “Maybe me. Tonight will be unpredictable. Like, herding cats.”

“You’ve rallied a mob?” summarized Zari. She sat up. He had never seen her look quite so disheveled. Lank curls had flattened against her ageless face.

“Something like that,” he said. “I’ve managed to get the Anarchs to question Garcia. Tonight, they will remove him from the barony, almost certainly by force. If I manage to corral the mob and channel it correctly, he will die. Tonight hinges, though, on Charlie playing a part.”

She stepped forward. “Anything,” she swore.

Anything to save her sister from danger.

“Be angry,” he said. “Be honest. The Anarchs know what Garcia has done. Talk to people, give them a face to your story. They will be on your side. Keep them there. Let things turn violent. Tonight is not the night for mercy.”

“Don’t worry about that,” said Charlie darkly.

Monroe stared. He wanted to apologize for what had happened. Every fledgling lost who they had been, one way or another, but Charlie’s introduction had been brutal beyond words. Gone was the girl who had frenzied at the thought of him interrogating hunters. In her place, stood a vampire.  _ She _ did not need an apology.

They needed no further convincing. This was his third night. If he failed again, they would leave him. Despite his pretty words and squared shoulders, Monroe’s confidence was not high. He second-guessed himself at every turn. Should he go armed? This whole planned hinged on the riot appearing spontaneous. Everyone went armed in LA, though. The Raufoss pistols were too conspicuous. Stake, then, which was as defensive as offensive. While it would not kill kindred, a stake to the heart paralyzed them.

They loaded into the remaining SUV. Monroe wondered how Hawthorne had left. She was unable to drive. How would she navigate? Auspex could enhance mundane senses, but it wasn’t native to Ventrue. As a ghoul, she had the Ventrue Disciplines — Dominate, Presence, Fortitude — as well as the other two physical ones, Potence and Celerity. None would truly help her now. He pushed the thoughts from his mind. She had made her decision.

When they arrived at Greystone, it was unnaturally busy. Dozens of kindred. Several dozen. Most of Angels, maybe some from other baronies, too. There was no Rant, no holiday event. Nothing. As the temperament of the crowd reached him, he understood. Word had spread faster than he expected. Bonfires had been lit and a casual Rant begun, but it wasn’t so much a Rant as it was a fan on the flames.

The Anarchs scarcely needed Monroe. He understood Garcia’s paranoia, all of a sudden. The young passionate Anarchs were so easily led and manipulated, drifting to the face and cause that provided them with the rage to satisfy their Beasts. Tonight, it was Charlie. Tomorrow, the next night, who knew. Maybe the Camarilla, maybe the Sabbat, maybe Monroe.

Los Angeles was a powder keg.

And Garcia sat on top of it.

Greystone was dark. All the lights were off. Monroe was distinctly reminded of Garcia’s first legend. As Prince Don Sebastian had felt the Anarchs of LA rise against him, he barricaded himself in his hacienda outside the city. That story ended with Don Sebastian being diablerized at Garcia’s fangs. But, Garcia wasn’t any Seventh Generation Toreador elder. He was a Ninth Generation Brujah who was new to these games.

Monroe was not.

Before he could even advise it, Charlie took off to the nearest bonfire. All she had to say was her name. The Anarchs welcomed her as a rallying flag. Stunned, she told them her story. She told them everything. Jack, with a small black cat on his massive shoulder, followed her as though to protect her from the mob.

Only Zari stayed close, looked to Monroe for direction. Giving orders was a familiar place to him. Maybe she thought it would relax him. It wouldn’t. He did it anyway.

“I suspect Ashley and his brood are here somewhere,” he told her. “Looks like half of LA came. When the time comes, ask him to be delicate with Presence. A mob will easily devour itself without direction. Find your own people. I’m sure they’ll hear your story, if you want to share it.”

Zari saluted him with a shade of her former swagger and disappeared into the press of bodies. Words were her weapon of choice, as ever. As they were his.

Large gatherings of kindred gave any cause to fear. In the Camarilla, only terror of the prince stopped elysium gatherings from turning violent. Here, there was no such guarantee. More than one Final Death had been met in a game. Monroe couldn’t promise anything tonight. Aside from Garcia. Even if the mob wouldn’t do it, he would. Even if it meant his own death.

Charlie had found her way up to a garden wall. She didn’t have a smooth command of words or anything prepared, but it was what the Anarchs wanted. Rage. Passion. The underdog battling the tyrant.

Monroe couldn’t have wrote it better.

She snarled and screamed. They answered her every pause with a cacophony of sound. Barely restrained chaos. They learned of Bella, of the sweet girl who watched cartoons and played with Barbies, who wanted to be an astronaut-firefighter, who named her stuffed animal Mr Darcy and had a weird obsession with Jane Eyre films.

Not thirty feet away, Zari did the same. Ashley’s silver-white hair stood out in her front row. She was too restrained for the same raw fury, but most every Anarch was young enough to still have mortal families. They knew her pain, to leave them behind, watch them age without you. They saw their worst nightmares in her reality. The Embrace was a curse. Every kindred knew it. To use it as punishment on their humans, it was a fate worse than death.

And, from everywhere and nowhere, the pervasive call and answer.

_ Why do you obey? _

_ We do not obey. _

A marching tune. A call to something more than a Rant, more than yelling at each other. A call to  _ do something _ . To make right the wrongs. To avenge those that had gone too far. To end injustice and cruelty and all those things that Anarchs thought they could destroy forever with a single punch, not knowing any one of them could easily become Garcia with the right push. Garcia was common as they came. A vampire, nature laid bare.

Monroe scanned the crowd, again and again, until he spotted him leaving. He had dyed his pale blonde hair dark for the occasion and wore paint-splattered jeans and flannel instead of fifty-thousand-dollar suits. Still, it was unmistakably Pieterzoon. He left Greystone quickly and quietly, shoulders stiff and head high.

He had done his job. All Monroe had to do was take advantage of it.

He didn’t have to wait long.

Monroe didn’t know what trigger Pieterzoon had given Garcia. Maybe it was a specific word, or a time of night, or a growl of the Beast’s hunger. Regardless, Greystone’s lights turned on. Garcia’s men left, fanning out among the crowds. They brought blood dolls out. The usual stock. Pale, dazed humans addicted to the vampires’ bite. Scrawny, weak things, attractive to the Beast’s predatory instinct.

Some of the crowd took the offer, hungry. Pairs and trios split the meal, tossing away the used vessel like an empty juicebox, left only with its life. 

Then. Garcia came out.

His appearance elicited boos and curses. It spread like wildfire.

Blinded by their anger, no one noticed the blankness of his eyes. But his face remained cold and cruel. He smoked, as usual. Pieterzoon was a master of Dominate, clearly. Enough of Garcia remained in the command to dispel any suspicion. He had even dressed in his usual jeans.

At his side, holding his hand like a walking porcelain doll, was a whimpering human girl.

With the dense crowds, only the first row or two saw it.

“You sick fuck!”

“Let the kid go.”

“It’s fucking true!”

Monroe pushed his way through and leapt on the wall. Everyone’s eye followed him. Charlie started at his sudden appearance. 

“What’s happening?” she asked.

“Don’t look,” he urged. “Garcia brought out Bella.”

It had the desired effect.

She looked. 

Charlie entered a frenzy just as Garcia lifted the small child and bit her in front of his barony.

She tore a path through the enraged crowd, beyond human language. Growls and screams did the job well enough. By the time she got there, Garcia was gone. He was fast, a blur. In the moment before he fled on Celerity, Monroe recognised the moment of awakening and fear. The Dominate command had passed. In moments, Garcia would understand what came over him.

The crowd had become a mob. It was true, they realised. All true. Garcia was no longer the man they thought. The snide once-joke of the  _ Anarch Prince _ had become reality. They did not recognise the tyrant who stood before them. Whipped into a fury by Charlie’s howls of anguish, all they needed was direction. 

“He went back into the manor,” shouted Monroe. “Come on.”

The words passed around. Herding cats.

Brujah and Gangrel ran ahead on fours. Soon, the mob was joined by a score of wolves, a bear, a mountain lion, and a moose.

Monroe kept a half eye on Garcia’s men who had brought out the blood dolls. They hovered in their indecision, unwilling to act against the mass of their master’s barony, but also unable to join it. A few did. The rest fled to the parking lots. Smart.

The wolves reached the manor first. One scrabbled with claws on the door. Others yelped and they smashed through the front windows. The bear came next. The door never stood a chance. It caved in, tearing away some of the wall with it.

And in poured war.

Monroe had fought in the Siege of New York, Camarilla against Sabbat. It was a terrible thing to behold. Worse to take part in. No longer could any hide behind names steeped in culture like  _ kindred _ and  _ vampire _ . They all became Cainites. The Sabbat’s term for their race. Inheritors of the legacy of the First Murderer. Any slight of anger became ruthless vengeance. Driven by pride. Possessed by an evil spirit. 

The mob took out their anger on Garcia’s men. Any who had remained in the house and knew of Bella and Aisha, standing by that Anarch Prince, was fair game. Limbs tore free. Gore splattered the house. Hisses. Each of El Hermandad had a dozen fangs sink into them. They shared the kills.

Monroe couldn’t waste any time on them. Garcia was bound to come down from the command any moment. Monroe grabbed the first face he recognised and dragged him ahead. It happened to be Ashley.

“We need to find Garcia,” said Monroe.

Ashley understood. He bared his fangs. “Of course.”

Ashley snatched faces Monroe didn’t recognise. He dragged them away from their kills and promised Garcia. The righteous fury drove them.

Witnesses. Something unspoken passed between Monroe and Ashley. Ashley was his.

The Cainites spread over the house like a noxious virus, corrupting the once-beautiful house. Anything that had a semblance of gentility, decorum, or culture was torn to shreds as a symbol of Garcia’s perceived Camarilla-ness. Furniture smashed. Portraits. Flower vases. A wolf gnawed books like a dog with a chew toy.

Monroe felt his borrowed time ebb away. It was like trying to hold cupped water. They would find out. Garcia would say he had been Dominated. Hatred of Clan Ventrue ran deep. Monroe would be the mob’s new target.

What a fitting end, though, to be devoured by his own failed plans.

“Search upstairs,” he ordered Ashley’s companions. “Bring me Garcia.”

Ashley stuck with him as they pealed through the upstairs rooms.

“You want to diablerize him or can I?” asked Ashley as they kicked open another door.

Minutes at most. Soon, the mob would run out of stuff downstairs to destroy.

Monroe snarled. “Garcia’s mine. After all this shit he’s put me through,  _ I _ get to kill him.”

Not here.

Another room. Stately office, lined with bookshelves. 

Another. Old computers, the monitors still glowing.

Another. An armory. Rifles, shot guns, crates of ammunition of a thousand types. Specialty crafted wooden stakes. This was where Garcia had rushed to.

He wrenched Bella and the girl cried out.

“You’re trying to hide behind a four foot child?” said Ashley with a wild grin. “You simply must be kidding me.”

Garcia pointed a gun to Bella’s temple. Once, Monroe would have called it as a false bluff, assumed Garcia’s benefactor reputation legitimate. Now, he assumed nothing.

“You will die tonight,” promised Monroe. “You get to choose what kind of man you die as: the one you’ve let yourself turn into or the one they followed.”

“Camarilla dog,” spat Garcia. A stream of ugly Spanish left him. “You know  _ nothing _ of me. You’ve poisoned my people against me.” He turned desperately to Ashley and his fellows. Feet thundered up the stairs. Mere moments. “I never would’ve done this. Ventrue mind tricks—”

Ashley howled. Monroe had brought him for a reason. His talent for scorn. His companions, whose resolve had begun to flicker, laughed with him.

“Listen, Garcia, you’re the one with a child here. Now, share a little blood with us. I’ll even make it sweet. Don’t make me take you by force.”

Garcia redoubled his grip on the gun. Desperate tears shined his eyes. “Don’t you come any closer. This child means nothing to me. I will kill her, so help me God.”

Monroe stopped. “It’s your turn to make a mistake now.”

For the first time, Garcia’s eyes flickered. Fear. The Beast smiled.

“You aren’t Don Sebastian,” said Monroe simply. “They all think you are. You might even think you are. But you’re worse. You were one of them, once. And you don’t have the power or Generation or backing that Sebastian did.”

For a moment, Garcia knew what was coming.

Monroe savoured the look of fear. “Save me a place in hell.  _ Drop the gun and kneel _ .”

The will was strong. Steel. Monroe never would’ve won a hand-to-hand fight against Garcia. Too strong, too fast. And who knew what tricks he had. But Garcia had ruled Anarchs and, after leaving the Camarilla in the dust, had never expected to encounter another Ventrue. Even his wild encounter with Pieterzoon had left him reeling.

In this battle, the fate was already decided.

Garcia’s gun clattered to the ground. Monroe let him struggle a little. Every muscle trembled as he refused to kneel to a Ventrue. The look in his eye was beautiful. Nothing less than sheer terror.

Monroe tightened his grip and Garcia knelt. Monroe dragged his fingers through the ink black hair and forced Garcia to look at him. He had no more time to savour the moment, though. The mob had joined them. 

Ashley’s little friends would tell tales about how Ventrue mind tricks had saved the girl. Sure, some Anarchs would sniff that it wasn’t a fair fight. Wasn’t how Anarchs did things. Others would point to the results.

No one begrudged Monroe this.

Even those with morals. 

All was fair in war. The spoils went to the victor.

Monroe knelt and leaned in close. Garcia flinched as they met, cheek to cheek. Garcia had been Embraced with stubble. Monroe grabbed him firmly and brought him closer, lips touching his ear. He barely whispered it but the jerk made him know Garcia had heard him.

“You were right.”

He sunk his fangs into Garcia’s neck and lost himself in the feeling. The chaos and anger around him entered him. Became him. The seductive taste of kindred vitae made him feel like a god. Invincible. Powerful. Undefeatable. Monroe drank deeper. His Beast crowed. The Beast of Ventru, of the rulers of the night. The Beast of Artemis Orthia, the first childe of Ventru, the Goddess of Sparta, the first of the Warrior Blood Gods. The Beast of Alastair Fowler, the scrappy tyrant who had watched his plans turn to ash around him. With his fangs in another kindred’s neck, Monroe could not deny his lineage or how his Beast spoke to him. 

He was a Cainite.

Monroe drank deeper.

The blood became unique. With it, came the flavour of Salvador Garcia. Brujah. The distant memories and emotions. His hotheadedness with MacNeil as a neonate, how he had worshipped the Father of the Free State, how he had once been like any other in this mob. Passionate and moralistic. Purposefully violent. Late nights in a barrio in East LA, surrounded by his men. Laughing. Drinking. Defending their turf. Writing the  _ Status Perfectus _ . That same swelling rhythm that Monroe felt when speaking. The paranoia and devotion to his people, to the State. The night a defeated MacNeil left.  _ It’s over, I’m sorry. Come with me, Sal. Please.  _ The crushing weight of MacNeil’s barony. Jesus Rameriz, his second in command, his brother, the first man to die in Greystone under a pack of feral vampires, urging him to leave Angels and come back home.  _ Come home, Sal _ .

His mortal life whipped by in moments. A man in Spain, fighting an oppressive regime alongside his young sister. Both died in a riot. And then, the face of a friend, who promised him the chance to make a difference. 

Monroe did not show mercy, but he drank slower and ensured Garcia passed more gently. There was no need to be cruel to that man, whatever remained of him. As the death passed in his lips, he drank the last of Garcia’s soul in his heartsblood.

The jolt hit him like a high he thought he would never come down from. He had  _ become _ a god. Every inch of him felt alive, flush with power and a painful pleasure. He trembled as he felt Garcia and his Beast, slowly fold into his own power, his own Beast that carried Fowler’s and all his ancestors’. Monroe muscled it until it faded away, pacified.

Monroe opened his eyes. The chaos had silenced. The mob had stopped destroying the house. He was still on his knees, his fangs in the neck of the late Salvador Garcia. The eyes of every kindred in the barony locked on him.

Monroe stood and, as he wrenched his fangs free, the body faded to the Final Death. It aged, rotted, and turned to dust in moments. Most of the mob had crammed themselves into the armory. Not a soul made a sound. He met their eyes without flinching.

“Be vigilant,” he warned. “Garcia used to be the best of you.  _ Anyone  _ can be corrupted by power. Never forget. Ask. Always. Why do you obey?”

It wasn’t the polite applause he had partially expected, but a jubilant whoop. Anarchs did not obey. At least, they didn’t think they did. And they screamed it back at him. Wolf whistles shrilled. Others screamed or shouted. They had accomplished their aim. They had killed a tyrant. Freed a child and wrongly turned fledgling. Done justice.

Tomorrow, they would reconsider. They would realise there was no baron, but there was a barony. Those they had fought side-by-side with on Greystone would become their enemies, competitors for the same land and blood. Tonight, they were compatriots. 

Monroe needed to leave, quickly. He grabbed Ashley and dragged him from the house while the mob took to ransacking the property. 

“What happened to Zari?” he demanded. “You were with her last. Did you see her?”

“She took Deliliah to the basement. I’m sure to rescue her beloved daughter.” Ashley smirked. “Since you seemed  _ so concerned  _ about the child, Charlie took the girl after you fanged Garcia.”

Good news, at least. So far, everything had gone according to plan.

“Anything… Anything else interesting happen?” asked Monroe. Kindred did not breathe, but he felt breathless all the same. Light-headed. He realised he hadn’t released his grip on Ashley and did awkwardly.

Ashley took him in with an intimate smile. “Enjoy that, did you?”

The weight of the diablerie began to settle. The Camarilla termed it vampiric cannibalism, partly to prevent neonates from eating their elders, partly to villanize the Sabbat. Though, the Sabbat did that well enough themselves. And Pieterzoon had helped Monroe do it. There would be hell to pay for the weakness. Not now, though.

Monroe returned the smile. “You have no idea.”

“Oh, I think I do, sweet friend.” Ashley chuckled. “You can barely stand straight. You’re much more palatable when you’re strung out. Did I ever tell you that?”

“Yes,” he said tersely. Monroe fought through the fog and electricity in his fingers. “Are you still interested in a barony?”

“The hell you think I’m here for? I’m taking the hills. Bel Air, the Glen, all those pretty, pretty mansions. Let’s build Switzerland.”

Surely Ashley was thinking of wild house parties, of moving drugs and making money, but Monroe thought of Pieterzoon, supposedly safe in the area few kindred made their living.

“Ask Orsay first,” said Monroe wryly. “She might object.”

“Not to me.”

Monroe looked back to the manor. The night was too sharp, too perfect. His Beast vibrated in his chest. Someone had started a fire. They were going to burn the place to the ground.

The Beast wanted more. More. Greed. Pride. Ambition. Garcia’s, Fowler’s, Ventrue’s — it was Monroe’s, now. He could scarcely blame his Beast for it entirely.

And the perfect piece was already at his side.

“Ash, if you help me set up and keep Hollywood, I’ll let you exclusive access to run through the clubs,” offered Monroe. It was a sweet deal, better than his one with Blue Moon, where Monroe still took thirty-percent of the profits.

Still, Ashley liked to play hard to get.

“What do you think I am? I can’t defend  _ another _ whole neighbourhood with just my three childer.”

“I think you stashed the Society of Leopold as ghouls for a rainy night,” said Monroe casually. “I want them.”

Ashley looked down his nose. Quite a feat, considering Monroe had several inches of height on him. “Look at you,” he drawled with something approaching respect. “A Ventrue managed to diablerize a Brujah Anarch war hero with the violent support of his own barony, reclaim his coterie’s lost human and fledgling, and  _ now _ you want to turn it into a business opportunity.”

“What can I say? I’m nothing if not practical.”

Ashley smiled. Moonlight glinted in his hair and fangs. “It’s why I like you, my friend.”


	21. Red Strings

This wasn’t what Charlie wanted. None of this. Bella clung to her with sharp fingers. She wouldn’t let go. Even when exhaustion claimed her, she fell asleep on Charlie and screamed and begged when she moved.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I won’t be bad again. Please, don’t leave. I’ll be good. Don’t give me back to the monsters.”

Charlie would stroke her hair and try to not cry. She went everywhere with her sister. Bella wouldn’t eat, or bathe, or sleep without her in eyesight. There was no peace in having her sister back. Charlie had feared she would become irritated, that the Beast would sniff hungrily, but it bowed to her anger and grief.

Bella had had something more than blood stolen from her.

It wasn’t fair. None of it was.

Their parents. Charlie’s death and Embrace. The Professor. Bella’s kidnapping.

None of it.

Zari asked her a dozen times, quietly, when Bella was asleep, but Charlie waved the question away.

“What are you going to do?”

She had no answer.

The nights blurred together into something she barely recognised. It wasn’t until the fifth — maybe eighth night — that Charlie even thought about Dustin. They hadn’t talked in ages. She couldn’t remember. Her chest ached — or maybe she expected it to, with the force of her pain. She knew what she needed to do, and she couldn’t do it alone.

Jack had returned more to normal, coming and going. Even Zari had begun to take Aisha outside, back to her house, and try to introduce her into their life. Tonight, as most nights, she and Charlie rested in Blue Moon’s basement, alone.

Charlie caught Zari’s eye and she felt the Presence ooze from the Toreador. Calm, reassuring. Bella murmured in her sleep, peaceful. Charlie slipped out of her grip and, reluctantly, left her sight and stepped into the elevator. For the first time since they had come back from that hellhole, she let herself cry. Just a few tears. But a few became a waterfall before she knew what happened. She slid against the wall of the elevator, paralyzed by the force of her grief. Grief for what hadn’t happened yet, for what she had gone through. The hot tears stole her from the world and put her into a new one, where she was forced to face the consequences of her actions.

She had always cried alone. She had always stood alone. Before her mother’s death, she prided herself on her fierce independence. Any she let into her inner circle were after years of careful consideration.

After their deaths, she had to admit she had become a different person. She had shut out the world, isolated herself, shunning pity and help and friendship of those who had cared about her. She had suffered alone, under the heavy grief and responsibility of Bella.  _ She _ dried her own tears.  _ She  _ picked herself up. No one else. Her. She relied on no one.

The Embrace had ripped that away from her. It gave her a new world of hurt, one she had no frame of reference for. It forced her to depend on strangers and look into parts of her that she didn’t like.

Nothing had changed. Everything had changed.

Charlie picked herself off the ground, wiped her tears, and stepped into Monroe’s office. He sat at his desk with a laptop. As she approached, he turned off his music. He had listened to her cry. Of course, though, he had just been giving her space. She didn’t want pity. They understood that much about each other, at least.

They were monsters. Every single one of them. But they were honest about it, at least.

“I need your help,” said Charlie.

Monroe looked up. It killed her how normal he looked. Composed. Confident. Emotionless in that inhuman way. He had killed his enemy, won his stupid rivalry. He had his happy ending. He got to keep Silver Lake, utterly independent, and Zari mentioned he had made a deal with Ashley about splitting up Hollywood, Los Feliz, the hills. 

It disgusted her. The unfairness of it all. She didn’t bother hiding it.

“Anything I can do for you, I will,” he said. Maybe he knew how she hated him.

Charlie opened her mouth. She should tell him what to do. Bella was her sister. This was her life. Her responsibility. She stood alone. She was determined to be on her own side. In spite of it, they had been through too much. She couldn’t deny that the coterie was on her side. To the ends of the earth and beyond.

“What’s best for Bella?” she asked. Her voice cracked. She collapsed into the chair opposite him. “What should I do about her?”

“You didn’t come to hear what’ll make you feel better,” said Monroe.

It wasn’t a question but she answered it anyways. “No.”

And so he told her. Every word hurt more than the one before. A knife was a knife, no matter how softly it slipped in.

“I will help you fake your death. You and Aisha. I’ve already had something planned. Once that has happened, Bella will be taken by the state and placed into foster care. Seeing the trauma she has been through, that will be incredibly messy, at best. If I am the only one you told of Dustin Cohen—” Charlie interjected that Zari knew, but he brushed it aside “—then I highly suggest you persuade him to take Bella. I can Dominate him or his family into adopting her, if need be.

“Once the adoption takes place, you will need to avoid contact with her. Bella can never see you again. She is young enough that therapists will convince her that the monsters and vampires were only kidnappers. Memories will fade. She will grow up, adjusted, and away from our world. She will have the mortal life no longer accessible to you.”

Charlie stared at her useless hands, curled in her lap. It didn’t feel like enough. It was like stretching a string across the Grand Canyon and calling it closed. After all that Bella had gone through, after all Charlie had gone through, she thought there would be more. She thought they had won. That there would be some sort of reward. It didn’t feel like winning.

“Is there something else?” prompted Monroe.

“When do you stop feeling?” she asked, numb. “I’ve noticed it already. How much longer?”

“They blunt,” said Monroe. He stroked a whiteboard marker pen in his hands. Blue. “The edge loses its sharpness. They become easier to control, to ignore, but they never truly go away. The Beast is what keeps us alive past our deaths. It knows anger, fear, hatred, hunger. For all what we appear, we do come from human stock. Humans are empathetic creatures. They love and hope, for all the suffering it brings, because it is better to hold onto it than not.”

Charlie shook her heads and sniffled again. She scrubbed her eyes. “Doubt it.”

“I know it seems impossible—”

“Don’t give me that shit,” said Charlie in disgust. She whipped her head up, but saw no pity in his eyes. Concern, but that self-assured blank calm didn’t leave room for pity.

He forced a smile. “I really do hate being interrupted.”

“Tough shit.”

He raised his eyebrows as though to ask permission. “I know it seems impossible, but things will get better.”

The empty sentiment sparked her anger. “That’s it? That’s all you got? All your centuries of knowledge and ‘things will get better’? I’m regretting letting you finish that sentence.”

“First of all, I’m still only one hundred seventy-four,” he said irritably. “But, if you will let me finish my point, things will get better because you will make them. Because living in suffering is so unbearable you  _ will _ change your life. You will choose another worldview or find a new purpose. You will leave your pain behind because it will grow too heavy to carry. There is nothing I can say to make the hurt go away. There will be nightmares. And, every night when you wake up, she will be the first thing you think about. Until, one night, she’s the second thing.”

Charlie hated Monroe. He had a way of making words slip through her defences like ninjas. More than that, she knew he was right. Her grief and sorrow from her parents, while it still lingered hollowly, wasn’t nearly as agonizing as it had been months ago.

Tears came to her eyes again and she bowed her head.

“I killed the Professor,” she admitted. “I shouldn’t have, but he had told Garcia about Bella and… Fuck.”

“I figured that had been you,” said Monroe heavily. “I’ll handle the fallout. I think you’re beginning to understand that at least part of our kind’s monstrosity is the lack of responsibility we bare to our peers. No one will think less of you for murder, especially in your circumstance.”

The accusation of her being a monster hit too close to home.

The implication that she had done nothing wrong, nothing out of her nature, hit harder.

Charlie frowned, realising what he said. “Fallout?”

“The Professor had a coterie. Math Class, including your sire. He was well-liked. I’ll… disperse the tension away from us.” Monroe looked at her very seriously. “Do you understand why I am burying this?”

Charlie nodded. No man was an island. Vampires were not men. The Professor had been an island, with a dozen bridges. Red strings circling around a pin in a corkboard before leading to other pins. Each pin the center of its own web. She had killed the Professor and each of those strings now hung loose. Those pins would feel it, seek her out, kill her and leave her own threads hanging free. Monroe. Jack. Zari. Aisha. Jesse, maybe. And on and on they go.

If no one knew it had been her, the cycle had broken.

She didn’t know how to say it without sounding nuts, so she just kept nodding.

“Alright,” he said. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Charlie had just been about to say  _ no _ but that wasn’t what left her mouth. The jumble of words bypassed her mind entirely. It felt like a violation of all her senses, including the ones she didn’t know well.

Monroe stared at her and lost the stiffness in his shoulders, his brow. “What was that?”

“She’s safe as a sword with a scepter.” Charlie swallowed. “Does that mean anything to you?”

“Did that just come to you?” he asked, lowering his voice as though someone could hear them.

She nodded. Monroe lost more of his bravado.

“Hawthorne’s not coming back, is she?”

“No, I don’t think she is,” he said heavily. “Thank you for the… message or warning, whatever that was. If there’s not anything else, please leave me to my work. I have a lot to do.”

Charlie guessed he didn’t, not really, but she left him anyways. Part of her wanted to give back his own paltry advice, but she didn’t need to rub salt in that particular wound.

She had her own wounds to care for. 

And so, she gave him space.

The funeral wasn’t grand. It was joint, however. Aisha Adeyemi and Charlotte Bradley died in Silver Lake, caught in the middle of a gang war that had spread from downtown. The gangs had used explosives. There wasn’t even enough left to bury. The victims had to be identified with dental records. Bella, a child of seven, had been recovered from her kidnappers, who just happened to be the human gang who died at the Sunset Junction. Dustin and his family didn’t need a talking to or any vampire magic. His parents already had put the adoption papers in. Bella had no family left. Matt Monroe made a public statement and, as a show of solidarity with the community, paid for the funerals and committed a stipend to help care for Aisha’s two nephews and Charlotte’s sister. 

None of the coterie had attended. At Charlie’s insistence, Monroe arranged an evening funeral at a community center. Charlie sat in the back, invisible, dressed in the same black dress she had worn to her parents’ funeral. She didn’t come to gleefully hear what people truly thought of her. She came for the same reason they all did. To say goodbye to Charlie Bradley.

Aisha’s nephews weren’t any older than Bella. They sat in the front row with their dad, Aisha’s brother, him in miniature, tiny Black boys with large dark eyes and close cropped hair. The elder picked at the cuffs of his suit, sniffling and trying not to cry. He had read a poem for his aunt about a butterfly.

Bella and Dustin sat in the other front row with his family. Dustin had a deep, hollow look to him. She wondered if he believed she was dead. She thought of how he had accepted she was a vampire, helped her best he could. She would never have another friend like Dustin Cohen. Never. Vampires did not have friends.

Monroe could say different, but Charlie feared Bella would always know. She would always remember those weird weeks before her sister died, those days spent in a cage, a monster with fangs, and days spent with her sister in a basement that Blue Moon didn’t have.

Bella bit her lip so hard it went bloodless. She kept turning around in her chair, like Charlie was going to pop up and go  _ Surprise _ . Dustin coaxed her back down every time. Bella didn’t let go of him, until she had to.

The funeral director put his hands on the lectern. “And now we will hear from the closest friends of Charlotte Bradley. Dustin Cohen would like to introduce you to her.”

Bella cried, “No!” far too loudly in the solemn church. Dustin whispered to her, trying to get her to let go, but then Meg stood up.

“It’s okay,” she whispered.

Meg, with honey blonde hair and a black sweater that reminded Charlie of Zari. Meg, who had never so much as said thanks to Charlie for the rides, or all the times she covered her half of the cheque. Meg had tears in her eyes as she walked to the podium.

“Everyone should have a friend like Charlie,” she said. “She didn’t always have a nice word for you and she never asked what you needed. She just knew. She always had your back and never asked for anything. After high school, our friend group all decided to go backpacking across Europe. It was our dream, to see the world and experience all the different cultures. I couldn’t buy a ticket. No one knew, but my parents and I weren’t doing well, financially. Charlie never asked. She just paid my ticket.” Meg choked. “It was the last time we were really all together.”

Then, came Rita. She read a poem she had written. It involved a metaphor about clouds. Honestly, it was a bit crap, like most of her writing. It didn’t rhyme or make a lot of sense. She struggled to get through it.

Carlos talked about when they had gotten lost in Milan. Neither of them spoke enough Italian to do anything but order off an ice cream menu or pronounce  _ aglio e olio _ . Charlie had made friends with some random strangers. They didn’t understand each other at all. With some mangled TV and film references, they managed to give directions. They shared a ton of drinks in a bar and become best friends. Carlos ended up dating one of them, two years strong.

It felt like they all described someone Charlie had known once, a very long time ago, in a dream. Charlie grieved for that girl.

Just as Bella had begun to settle down, Dustin stood up. She complained loudly, but Meg and Carlos sat with her and encouraged her to sit quietly. Fat chance.

Dustin glanced at the smiling high school picture and flowers. “I’ve known Charlie all her life,” he said. “She wasn’t always perfect. She could be difficult, stubborn, and a colossal pain in the ass. She was also recklessly kind and a powerful friend. Lately, life had taken a toll on her. Her parents deaths’ hit her hard and she took on the responsibility of being a single parent and sole provider all too soon. She didn’t always handle it the best, but she loved her sister more than anything. And, I know, she’s in a better place.” He took a deep breath. “She’s found peace. But, the people we love never truly leave us. They stay, in our mannerisms, our dreams, the way we smile when we think of them and are inspired to do good by their memories. In that way, Charlie is all our guardian angel.”

Dustin scanned the church morosely, but Charlie felt he spoke directly to her. He knew she had been turned. He couldn’t believe she was dead. He didn’t believe in a “better place”. 

It brought her out of her memoriam. Her eyes burned and blinked tears down her face. Invisible, she didn’t bother wiping them clean. She grieved not only for the dead girl, but what she had lost. Her friendships, her would-be family, her sister. The life stolen from her.

Bella cried quietly to herself. The sound echoed in the high ceilings. Dustin looked like he maybe had more to say, but he stepped down and comforted her. Charlie should’ve done that. She had never been good at it but she should’ve tried more.

The director took the podium again and gave a blessing. He went on about Aisha and Charlie, about young lives taken too soon, and the footsteps left behind for the younger to follow.

It was time for her to leave, before the crowd made it impossible, before the pastor shut the door. The last thing Bella needed was hearing that Charlie had appeared at her own funeral.

Charlie felt about a hundred years old as she stood. Dusty. Creaky. A relic already. A nobody. She didn’t exist. But she used to. She had meant something, to all those pins here, and with her death the strings had been cut.

Even they knew she had been killed. Murdered. Blown into bits. Gang violence.

But they didn’t curse the gangsters they blamed for her death. They didn’t pledge vengeance or rage. They internalized their pain and, as Dustin said, they valued the life rather than the loss of it.

Charlie needed to take this feeling with her, the memories of the dead girl and who she used to be. She had to remember her, to live a life she would’ve been proud of. Be a person she recognised.

The back door still hung ajar. A hundred people stood and chattered softly, as though respectful of the spirits. Charlie gave one last lingering look. Bella huddled against Dustin’s coat, like a frightened bird. His brother and the rest of his family hung close behind. Bella had plenty of people to worry about her now, to help her with homework, teach her to ride a bike, take her to the zoo, play Lego, sing about Pokemon, watch Jane Austen movies. These last few weeks would be a bad dream.

Charlie promised herself that she wouldn’t be the girl’s guardian angel. She wouldn’t allow vampires to come anywhere near her again, not even herself. Bella Bradley would become Isabella Cohen and the Anarchs of Los Angeles would forget. She had done enough damage. 

Charlie slipped past the door like a ghost. It was heavier than she thought and hit her on the way. Had she been human, it would’ve left a bruise. Instead, it only made her visible. She forced herself to act natural. No one had seen her face. Only her back. 

She flipped it back on after she had slipped out. No panic sounded behind her. No frightened whispers. All this work would be for nothing if she fucked it up now.

She had to wait for everyone to leave. She had driven Zari’s Mercedes, but couldn’t risk anyone seeing her again. Charlie clung to the side of the building. The mourning parties split up for a late dinner, making slow progress to their own cars. Conversation drifted from sadness to mundane events. Sports games, traffic, office gossip. 

Almost the last people, Dustin came out with Bella. He held her hand. She didn’t look happy but maybe less miserable. Dustin didn’t pay his brother any attention as he continued to talk around him. His parents wanted to go to temple. As he passed by her, he pulled out his phone.

Charlie’s vibrated in her purse.

He stiffened at the sound and turned, eyes scanning the nothingness where she stood. Her eyes found his and she could imagine she was somebody.

Dreading what she would find, Charlie slowly reached for her phone. She had a new text message.

_ You did the right thing. _

Those five words meant more to her than she thought they would. She should’ve ignored it. She should’ve let them bury her. Her fingers typed a response before she realised.

_ Take care of her. _

His response came quickly.  _ Always. Have a good life _ .

After everything she had put him through, put Bella through, he still didn’t wish her ill. He didn’t want to make her pay or force her to understand his pain and confusion. Regardless what he thought of her personally, he wanted only the best for her. 

It was so human.

Charlie wanted to throw her arms around him, feel him forgive her, ruffle Bella’s hair, to laugh with her friends. She returned the sentiment the only way she could. She turned. She walked away.

She did not exist.


	22. Epilogue

Jan hated America. Perhaps that was a bit harsh. He found what it represented distasteful, the lack of history and tradition disorienting, and the mere fact that it was not his beloved Amsterdam filled him with homesickness. Also, Jan was older than the country itself, which only added to his feelings of unease and encroaching timelessness. He was too old and, even so, not old enough. Never old enough.

He had not been back home in thirty years. It was the longest he had been away from Amsterdam since his Embrace, each night setting a new record. The thought he might never return home plagued him.

Most nights, Jan did not bother dressing. He took his calls and emails from his private bedroom and there were none in the house to impress but his ghouls. More than once, he had considered descending from the hills in disguise to infiltrate the Anarchs, if only to amuse himself. Espionage itself was not alien to Jan, but the danger of discovery quickly quashed his own boredom.

Things would not be boring for much longer.

Bartholomew Vaughn was impatient, as only an ancilla prince could be. As only a Ventrue of not yet two centuries could be. Jan wondered if he had ever been so blatant or aggravating. Perhaps the American blood did something to those Ventrue who lived here. It would certainly explain things. It would explain the whispers that had reached him. Matthew Monroe had diablerized Salvador Garcia. That would be a problem for another night, however.

A crisp knock echoed in the silence. Jan finished sending his last email and sent the computer to sleep.

“Come in, Mr Ritter,” he said calmly in Dutch.

Ritter entered and clicked his heels. “Good evening, master. Mr Edwin has arrived tonight and wishes a word with you before retiring.”

Jan leaned back and sighed. That was all he needed. Another few moments and he would absorb Ritter’s message but, for now, he indulged himself in the Dutch. Aside from his ghouls, he hadn’t heard the language in decades now. 

“Of course, Mr Ritter,” he said. “I will receive him downstairs momentarily.”

Dismissed, the ghoul left to relay the message. 

Jan dressed swiftly, in the blue and gold of Clan Ventrue, and, with a distasteful look, spoke the incantation. On his right hand, a swirling tower glowed in the Blood sorcery. Archons, alastors, and other agents of the Camarilla bore such sigils, so as to prove their identity to princes they needed to bring to heel. Jan bore the only one to Hardestadt and had a better name for them. Brands.

Downstairs, Edwin awaited him. The Gangrel paced back and forth like a worried dog and, like many elder kindred, had decided upon his manner of dress and kept it — regardless what humans thought. Edwin dressed like a man in black from an old American western, including a duster and large hat.

As an archon and alastor, Edwin had acquired a great many names over his centuries. The Starving Wolf. Widowmaker. Crowsblood. Catiffs and Anarchs were wont to say that buzzards and crows circled a realm when Edwin entered. Kindred deaths, of course, did not leave behind flesh corpses for carrion birds to be attracted to, but the poetic sentiment remained. Jan wanted him as much for it as for his expertise and history. 

“Archon Edwin, I am delighted you found time to join me in California,” said Jan sincerely in English.

The title of archon for him was a mere formality, as Justicar Xavier had discharged him half a century ago. His mark was black, but he wore it openly anyway. When they shook hands, the brands glowed.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” said Edwin. He smiled with a mouth full of canine teeth. Dark hair grew coarse and spiny, like the fur of a wolf down the sides of his face. “If Hardestadt is finally taking interest in the Free State, I’m game.”

“This is _our_ victory. I’ve not called a Justicar and I have no intent on it.”

Edwin raised his chin, appraising him, and Jan bristled at the insubordination. He hadn’t fed in too many nights. Hardestadt’s Beast growled.

“Why now?” he asked at last. “Why, when Hardestadt has left the Free State to its own devices for years?”

“I am his Voice and Hand, not his mindreader,” said Jan delicately. “Like us all, I do what I am told and ask not questions whose answers I am not entitled to. I requested your presence as a steadfast ally. We work well together.”

“Every war has spoils, even if it is thinblood amaranth,” said Edwin. “But before any soldier sees the spoils, he is paid.”

“Work as an alastor has made you mercenary, my friend.”

“Only practical.”

Jan directed them into a sitting parlour and, reluctantly, Edwin sat. He was not large or muscled like most Gangrel the Ventrue took to service, but lithe and wirey like his namesake and the wolf the Gangrel curse slowly turned him into.

“I want to make something very clear between us,” said Edwin, leaning forward. “If the Inner Circle calls me, even on a bullshit goose chase after some Red Lister, I’m gone. If I don’t like what I’m doing, I’m gone. I’m here of my own choice and that can change. Tell me what you’re planning here.” He snorted, realising that would be highly unlikely. “Don’t feed me bullshit, anyway.”

“I’m going to install a Camarilla prince,” said Jan evenly. “I appreciate the sacrifice you are making by coming here. Many of the Anarchs are your clan, of course, and there is much blood to be spilled before peace will come.” Jan removed his spotless glasses and cleaned them. “Blood there will be. And, on behalf of Hardestadt, Ventrue Founder of the Camarilla, my sire, I pardon any diablerie indulged in on explicitly sanctioned missions during the acquisition and return of the Anarch city Los Angeles to Camarilla order and rule.”

Edwin’s lips quirked. “You like words, Jan. Always did. Could use half of them and say the same damned thing. But, payment. I didn’t come here to listen to you yap.”

“Correct,” he said, “but, I know I am not the only elder who wishes he was back in the Old World. What is here in LA for you?”

Edwin stared and chuckled in confusion, like Jan knew he would. “I got some… let’s call it unfinished business with this riff-raff. Only wished you hadn’t waited until MacNeil skipped town. And some other blue blood bastard got his fangs into Garcia.”

Jan suppressed his cringe. “There are still many old Anarchs from the original Revolts.”

Edwin barked a laugh. In between assignments as an archon, he had been the scourge of the former prince, an act of duty to his friend. “The only ones I was interested in are dead now. You called me up and invoked your sire, I’m here. Don’t make me leave when I’ve come all this long way.”

“You will have the eternal thanks of the Prince of San Francisco and Los Angeles,” said Jan covertly.

Edwin smirked. “You can’t be letting that little turncloak weasel found a new kingdom here. King of California?”

“Plans have not been laid for the technicalities of rule beyond the _pro tempora_ prince and court.”

“You got no idea what you’re gonna do once all those barons are dead.” Edwin’s smirk grew with overlarge canine fangs. “Maybe you do got an idea, but you’re not exactly the sharing type.”

“Edwin,” said Jan sternly, “I will not lead you into danger. I will not jeopardize your life, honour, or reputation. I will reward you justly for the work you accomplish. I will let you draft who you require and provide the tools that I may provide. As childe of Hardestadt, Ventrue Founder—”

Edwin cut him off with a hand. “I don’t want any oath. I want you to be straight with me. You haven’t been back to Europe in three decades. Is Hardestadt communicating via messenger pigeon?”

He was so close. The Starving Wolf had the pieces and not the perspective to slide them into place.

“You think I serve another.”

“I think you’re getting a little tired of your glass ceiling and you want me to break it for you,” said Edwin. “I’ve served Ventrue long enough to recognise that look in your eye.”

Jan stared, calm and steady. Edwin did not break so easily. Minutes slipped by and Jan left the silence as his answer. Edwin would not hear the truth, but it would pacify him to think Jan was exactly what he expected of the Ventrue. Expansionist, greedy, ruthless.

Edwin leaned back and snorted, knowing he was being deceived but not understanding how. “Since I’m not exactly here for the honour of the Inner Circle,” he said sarcastically, “I want payment. A boon by the prince. Major. I want a formal position in court, again. Scourge. And exclusive domain of Pasadena, again. And I’ll let you keep your little secrets.”

Vaughn would not take kindly to it. Jan had dealt with princes the better part of his three centuries. He knew which princes would listen to reason, which would cooperate for duty or love of their station, and which he would need an intermediate close to the prince to repeat Jan’s words. Vaughn was no such prince. He was the prince who never should’ve been, a fluke of Anarch power mongering, and now Jan’s pain and punishment. He would have to be sly but, in the end, Vaughn knew when it was time to obey. After all, he was only a Ventrue ancilla.

Edwin leaned forward and smiled conspiratorially. “Come on. We all know Ventrue don’t get their hands dirty. Hardestadt and the rest of you have been using my clan for millenia. I’m happy to walk. When you’re desperate, though, my prices are gonna start going up.”

Jan extended a hand and they shook on it.

Edwin didn’t let go. “Scourge. Pasadena. Major boon.”

Jan repeated it back and he relaxed, content.

“What are my orders, Dux Bellorum?”

The title in Edwin’s mouth was a joke, undeclared, but unofficial truth, at least to those with eyes to see. Jan had not bore the title formally since New York. He found he did not like wearing it. While he was no stranger to battle or respect, formally declared the unilateral dictator and warlord of a conflict unsettled him deeply. Still, it was a tool. And all tools had their place.

“The San Fernando Valley,” said Jan. “Once you’ve accumulated what data you require and surveilled the location, Prince Bartholomew Vaughn wants it purged of living kindred.”

Edwin shrugged. “Guess I better get on that, then. Do I have any footsoldiers?”

Jan narrowed his eyes slightly. “Against Anarchs? Whatever for?”

He growled, low and reluctant, but accepted. Archons, too, knew when to obey and Edwin’s pride was easily manipulated.

Edwin stood and brushed the caked on mud from his boots on Jan’s floors. “Fine,” he snapped. “I’ll call you when I make headway.”

Without any more formal of a farewell, Edwin transformed into a vast crow. The Gangrel’s three centuries had only made his crow grow larger, until it resembled more a mythological omen of death than any natural creature. A passing ghoul hurried to open the front door but it was no need. Edwin smashed through a window and took off into the night.

Jan sighed. A small price to pay.

Ritter manifested in that way he tended to, almost Nosferatu-like in his silence and uncanny ability to be there when least wanted and most needed. He waited to be addressed, though burst with undelivered message.

“Tell me, Mr Ritter,” said Jan with the edge of a smile. “What’s happened?”

“You were right, master,” he said. “Word of an attempt to civilize Los Angeles has crossed far and wide, and it has attracted the attention of ancillae seeking their fortunes and one who will attempt to call praxis against Prince Bartholomew.”

Jan loathed being right, especially since he was only ever right when it came to predicting the worst. As far as kindred went, though, they were most often one and the same.

“Where does this information come from?” he asked.

“Prince Calebros of New York. The ancilla coming is a member of his realm.”

Calebros was a Nosferatu, given his crown by Monroe’s urging and Jan’s permission, surely laughing in the warrens at this news, though he was sworn to give truth. Jan had a great number of princes and elders of the New World indebted to him.

“I see. Has Calebros told you who this ancilla is, or will I need to wring him out myself?”

At this, Ritter’s chest puffed out proudly. He had already done the wringing out. “Sir, he is Sebastian Lacroix of the Clan of Kings, Eighth of the Line of Tiamat, and has abandoned note of his sire.”

Jan frowned. He had expected a Ventrue. Digging through Tiamat’s line wouldn’t be difficult, so long as he was an appraised Ventrue, but to deliberately hide his sire spoke to his distance in the clan. Even Matthew Monroe, who bore the name of a disgraced and murdered sire and had lived as autarkis since the Revolts, used it to introduce himself.

“Send a letter to the Lineage Offices and persuade New York’s court,” said Jan. “Use my name, or even Hardestadt’s if you need to. I want to know where he comes from, what he’s done, and who he has allied himself with in his years. If he wants to claim praxis, he won’t come alone.”

“Yes, sir,” said Ritter. After a moment and a shared knowing look, he clicked his heels and returned to his quarters to continue his task.

Jan liked a quiet house. It gave him room to think. It made him feel as one with his domain and home. In Amsterdam, he knew which of his ghouls slipped to the kitchen for a midnight snack by the rhythm of footsteps on the stairs. When the river was quiet, he could even deduce what was eaten. 

In America, he had not grown so attuned, but he listened close. Ms Visser swept away the glass from the broken window. Mr Bakker and Mr Baas joked in the dining room over a late supper. The twins, Misses Eva and Lotte Fransen, snored in fitful sleep upstairs.

Outside, a car pulled up. After several minutes, one person exited.

Jan brushed Ms Visser aside as she rushed to get the door. The yellow cab drove away and left a young woman behind. A woman he knew not as a kindred, but a ghoul. And yet, her ashen skin told him she had left daylight behind. It was Monroe’s prized ghoul, an heirloom and enforcer. She carried nothing but a purse and appeared to be in fine health. Stress clung to her pursed lips, a stiffness in her shoulders born not of formality but fear. 

“Miss Hawthorne,” said Jan amicably. “I did not expect you so late.”

At his voice, tension eased from her. She shuffled closer to the steps uncertainly, tripping on her way up. Jan extended a hand to assist, but she didn’t take it. She didn’t see. It was not uncommon, especially among particularly old kindred. The Blood only healed so much and did poorly with the nervous system. Extended torpor might do more, but few kindred had the security net to sleep for decades or centuries.

Jan gently touched her arm and Hawthorne took his as he led her into the house. She had been Embraced, likely during great trauma. Monroe might be young and overly fond of her, but he wasn’t a fool. He wouldn’t Embrace during a fight.

Jan knew too little of the situation to begin probing with questions. So long as Monroe’s loyalty to Jan remained uncertain, he couldn’t let on how little he knew. 

“Would you like to sit?” he asked politely.

She nodded, stiff, and he directed them to the parlour again.

“Any refreshment?” he asked.

She shook her head, no.

Most fledglings frenzied at their first taste of blood. Ghouls, of course, were deeply familiar with the longing and hunger. Jan wondered if she had frenzied but at all. Now, her body would go on and covert her mortal blood supply into vitae and feast from the inside out. The hunger grew.

“Monroe sired me,” she said at last.

“Yes,” he agreed.

“He gave me this address, said that—” Hawthorne lost her momentum and lapsed back into uneasy silence. Her fingers clawed together.

“What did Monroe say about me?” he asked.

“That you would help me.” It was not a plea. There was no weakness in the words, only an honest declaration of her need.

“I can,” he allowed. Jan leaned forward and studied her closer. He would need to ask Ritter of her. The two of them had spent great time together whenever Jan and Monroe had. “What do you want of me?”

Hawthorne took a deep breath. “I want to be part of the Camarilla.”

Unexpected, especially from Monroe’s ghoul, but he entertained the idea. “For that, you will need to be accepted and appraised as a Ventrue,” he said. “You might, if you wish, live as an outcast but I suspect that is not your intention.”

“No, sir.” Hawthorne’s lips tightened again. “What would I need to do to be appraised?”

“The appraisal is the culmination of a new fledgling’s agoge,” he explained. “Close service of Clan Ventrue, in both Europe and America, for two centuries, I expect you to know the agoge. At the end of it, the fledgling presents herself to the city’s Ventrue Board and makes a case for her acceptance.”

The house grew stiller and more quiet. Hawthorne waited for him to continue but he wouldn’t. She did know of this and, in fact, came with one specific request.

“Will you set me the agoge, sir?” she asked.

“No.”

Hawthorne’s lips parted in horror and she barely restrained herself. “Monroe has set other fledglings the agoge, ones he didn’t sire,” she argued.

“Think, please, for one moment about what you ask of me,” said Jan less kindly. “You are asking me to take charge and foster a fledgling, whose sire surely still wants her, a sire I consider a good ally—”

“He is not your ally,” spat Hawthorne with surprising venom. “He is your debtslave.”

Jan had long ago learned to not exact his anger with action. The memory of egotistical violence would come back to haunt him. He had learned to instill the same fear with a look, but all he had was Presence to make Hawthorne understand her error. Her fingers trembled and she clenched them tighter.

“You do not interrupt a Ventrue older than yourself,” he said coolly. “If you think you have been freed from the chains of blood as a ghoul into an eternity of equality, you are much mistaken, Miss Hawthorne. I do, in fact, consider Monroe my ally, even with his debt to me.”

She hung her head bitterly. “I am sorry, sir.”

Jan sighed. He had not been wrong, but he had been a touch harsh. Hawthorne had not been the first Ventrue fledgling to fear and hate her sire, fleeing her only touchstone to the clan that would be her future.

“Suffer your sire and the agoge,” said Jan gently. “We all have. You, surely, have perspective. One or two decades is little in the grand scheme of things. Pay your dues and, once you have been appraised, return to me and I can assist your assimilation into the Camarilla.”

Hawthorne slipped her face into her hands. Without vision, eye contact might not be so essential, but the display of emotion unnerved him. “I can’t go back to him,” she pleaded. “I don’t — I won’t.”

 _Won’t._ That would be the truth of it, then. Monroe would take her, but her pride prevented it. Jan was done here. He could not and would not make an enemy of Monroe by fostering his childe, but the clear pain and struggle of another demanded his assistance.

“Learn Auspex,” he advised. “It won’t be easy. You will need to find a Toreador or Malkavian to drink from. The power will never come naturally and it will burn blood like little else, but it will be invaluable. Not only for the enhanced senses, but the ability to read auras rather than facial expressions.”

Hawthorne’s brow furrowed as she glanced up again. “Thank you,” she said, surprised.

“Find yourself an eye doctor,” he continued. “Learn the extent of your vision damage. With knowledge, you can move forward. Ease the burden of one of your struggles and then learn to pay your dues to the clan. Until then, I will loan you Ms Visser to assist.”

Summoned by the mention of her name, she set broom and dustpan and stood beside Jan’s chair. She appeared in her early twenties, much like Hawthorne, and had the best unaccented American English of his staff. If Hawthorne let her, she could become a fine companion.

“I will not go back to Monroe,” she said coarsely.

Jan sighed. Ventrue were always in need of in-clan enforcers, but ones without subtlety were more trouble than they were worth. “You have a great deal to learn. First, do not attempt to give offence to one attempting to help you.”

“I’m just making myself clear.”

“Such honesty is rarely a friend to our kind.”

Hawthorne nodded and bowed her head. “Apologies, sir.”

“You are not a ghoul,” said Jan irritably. “Act like it.”

She straightened herself and he felt the Beast respond, a fierce rush of possessive pride. Hawthorne needed to leave before Jan did something he would regret, like acquiescing to her foolish immature request to be fostered.

“Is there anything else?” he asked politely. “I am a very busy man.”

“No, sir,” she said as reflex.

She stood as he did and he raised a hand for her to sit. “Stay,” he said. “Ms Hilda Visser will return in ten minutes with a bag of her belongings.” At a stern look from him, she hurried upstairs. “She is on loan. Release her in two weeks or when you return to Monroe, whichever comes first. Do what you wish with her. I suspect you know the physical limits of winter ghouls.”

“I do, sir.” As though his words lingered in her thought, Hawthorne had become deeply still and unmoving.

New fledglings were prone to outbursts, he knew. Even a winter ghoul such as she had been might not be immune. Jan did not expect Ms Visser to return to him, though he hoped she would. Lately, though, his predictions of kindred psychology had been proven right. Jan so disliked being right.


End file.
